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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

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LITTLE   MASTERPIECES 


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ivlasterpieces 

Edited  by  Bliss  Perry 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

V 

DR.  HEIDEGGER'S  EXPERIMENT 
THE  BIRTHMARK 
F'^TT          BRAND 
ELD 

^»S  WOODEN  IMAGE 
THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST 
THE  GREAT  STONE   FACE 
THE  GRAY    CHAMPION 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY   &   McCLURE   CO. 
1899 


Copyright,  1897,  by 

DOUBLEDAY    &    McCLURE    Co. 


These  selections  are  used  by  special  arrangement  with 

Messrs.  Hougkton^  Mifflin  &*  Co.,  the  authorized 

publishers  of  Hawthorne's  works. 


SHLF 


Introduction 


Introduction 


HAWTHOENE  made  three  collections  of  his 
short  stories  and  sketches  :  "  Twice-Told 
Tales,"  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,"  and 
"  The  Snow  Image  and  Other  Tales."  The 
prefaces  to  these  volumes  express,  with  char 
acteristic  charm,  the  author's  dissatisfaction 
with  his  handiwork.  No  critic  has  pointed 
out  so  clearly  as  Hawthorne  himself  the  in 
effectiveness  of  some  of  the  "  Twice-Told 
Tales  "  ;  he  thinks  that  the  "  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse  "  afford  no  solid  basis  for  a  lit 
erary  reputation;  and  his  comment  upon  the 
earlier  and  later  work  gathered  indiscrim 
inately  into  his  final  volume  is  that  "  the 
ripened  autumnal  fruit  tastes  but  little  better 
than  the  early  windfalls." 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  collections 

* 

were  made  in  desultory  fashion.  They  in 
cluded  some  work  that  Hawthorne  had  out 
grown  even  when  the  first  volume  was 
published,  such  as  elaborate  exercises  in 
description  and  fanciful  allegories,  excel 
lently  composed  but  without  substance.  Yet 
side  by  side  with  these  proofs  of  his  long, 

vii 


Introduction 

weary  apprenticeship  are  stories  that  reveal 
the  consummate  artist,  mature  in  mind  and 
heart,  and  with  the  sure  hand  of  the  master. 
The  qualities  of  imagination  and  style  that 
place  Hawthorne  easily  first  among  Amer 
ican  writers  of  fiction  are  as  readily  discern 
ible  in  his  best  brief  tales  as  in  his  romances. 
"  Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment,"  with  which 
the  present  volume  opens,  is  Hawthorne's 
earliest  treatment  of  the  elixir  of  immortal 
ity  theme,  which  haunted  him  throughout 
his  life  and  was  the  subject  of  the  unfinished 
romance  which  rested  upon  his  coffin.  He 
handles  it  daintily,  poetically  here,  with  an 
irony  at  once  exquisite  and  profound.  "  The 
Birthmark '  represents  another  favorite 
theme:  the  rivalry  between  scientific  passion 
and  human  affection.  It  is  not  wholly  free 
from  the  morbid  fancy  which  Hawthorne 
occasionally  betrays,  and  which  allies  him, 
on  one  side  of  his  many-gifted  mind,  with 
Edgar  Allan  Poe;  but  the  essential  sanity  of 
Hawthorne's  moral,  and  the  perfection  of 
the  workmanship,  render  "  The  Birthmark  " 
worthy  of  its  high  place  among  modern  short 
stories.  "  jSthan  Brand "  dates  obviously 
from  the  sojourn  at  North  Adams,  Massa 
chusetts,  described  in  the  "  American  Note- 
Book."  Fragmentary  as  it  is,  it  is  one  of 
Hawthorne's  most  powerful  pieces  of  writ 
ing,  the  Unpardonable  Sin  which  it  portrays 
— the  development  of  the  intellect  at  the  ex- 

viii 


Introduction 

pense  of  the  heart — being  one  which  the 
lonely  romancer  himself  had  had  cause  to 
dread.  The  motive  of  the  humorous  charac 
ter  sketch  entitled  "Wakefield  "  is  somewhat 
similar:  the  danger  of  stepping  aside,  even 
for  a  moment,  from  one's  allotted  place. 
"  Browne's  Wooden  Image  "  is  a  charming 
old  Boston  version  of  the  artistic  miracles 
made  possible  by  love.  In  "  The  Ambitious 
Guest,"  the  familiar  story  of  the  Willey 
House,  in  the  Notch  of  the  White  Hills,  is 
told  with  singular  delicacy  and  imaginative 
ness,  while  "  The  Great  Stone  Face,"  a  par 
able  after  Hawthorne's  own  heart,  is  sug 
gested  by  a  well-known  phenomenon  of  the 
same  mountainous  region.  Hawthorne's 
numerous  tales  based  upon  New  England 
history  are  represented  by  one  of  the  brief 
est,  "The  Gray  Champion."  whose  succinct 
opening  and  eloquent  close  are  no  less  admi 
rable  than  the  stern  passion  of  its  dramatic 
climax. 

Not  every  note  of  which  Hawthorne's  deep- 
toned  instrument  was  capable  is  exhibited 
in  these  eight  tales,  but  they  will  serve,  per 
haps,  to  show  the  nature  of  his  magic.  Cer 
tain  characteristics  of  his  art  are  everywhere 
in  evidence:  simplicity  of  theme  and  treat 
ment,  absolute  clearness,  verbal  melody,  with 
now  and  again  a  dusky  splendor  of  coloring. 
The  touch  of  a  few  other  men  may  be  as  per 
fect,  the  notes  they  evoke  more  brilliant,  cer- 

ix 


Introduction 

tainly  more  gay,  but  Hawthorne's  graver 
harmonies  linger  in  the  ear  and  abide  in  the 
memory.  It  is  only  after  intimate  acquaint 
ance,  however,  that  one  perceives  fully  Haw 
thorne's  real  scope,  his  power  to  convey  an 
idea  in  its  totality.  His  art  is  the  product 
of  a  rich  personality,  strong,  self-contained, 
content  to  brood  long  over  its  treasures.  It 
is  seldom  in  the  history  of  literature — and 
quite  without  parallel  in  American  letters — 
that  a  nature  so  perfectly  dowered  should 
attain  to  such  perfect  self-expression.  Here 
lies  his  supreme  fortune  as  an  artist.  He  was 
permitted  to  give  adequate  expression  to  a 
rare  and  beautiful  genius,  and  for  thousands 
of  his  countrymen  life  has  been  touched  to 
finer  issues  because  Hawthorne  followed  his 
boyish  bent  and  became  a  writer  of  fiction. 

BLISS  PERRY. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Editor's   Introduction  v 

•Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment     .         .  I 

•The  Birthmark 21 

Ethan  Brand 53 

Wakefield 83 

Browne's  Wooden  Image           .         .         .  101 

The  Ambitious  Guest         ....  125 

The  Great  Stone  Face        ....  141 

The  Gray  Champion           ....  177 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 


THAT  very  singular  man,  old  Dr.  Heidegger, 
once  invited  four  venerable  friends  to  meet 
him  in  his  study.  There  were  three  white- 
bearded  gentlemen,  Mr.  Medbourne,  Colonel 
Killigrew,  and  Mr.  Gascoigne,  and  a  withered 
gentlewoman,  whose  name  was  the  Widow 
Wycherly.  They  were  all  melancholy  old 
creatures^who  had  been  unfortunate  in  life, 
and  whose  greatest  misfortune  it  was  that 
they  were  not  long  ago  in  their  graves.  Mr. 
Medbourne,  in  the  vigor  of  his  age,  had  been 
a  prosperous  merchant,  but  had  lost  his  all 
by  a  frantic  speculation,  and  was  now  little 
better  than  a  mendicant.  Colonel  Killigrew 
had  wasted  hisbest  years^ 

substance,  in  the  pursj 

*      • 

of   soul    and    body.      Mr.    Gascoigne    was    a 


ruTrLacl  politician,  a  man  of  evil  fame,  or  at 
least  had  been  so,  till  time  had  buried  him 
from  the  knowledge  of  the  present  genera 
tion,  amiT  made  him  obscure  instead  "of~in- 
famous.  TAS  tor  the  Widow  Wycherly.  tradi- 

3 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

tion  tells  us  that  she  was  a  great  beauty  in 
her  day;  but,  for  a  long  wniie  pasC she  had 
lived  in  deep  seclusion,  on  account  of  certain 
scandalous  stories,  which  had  prejudiced  the 
"k£ntrv  of  the  towr^  q  gainst  her.  It  is  a  cir 
cumstance  worth  mentioning,  that  each  of 
these  three  old  gentlemen,  Mr.  Medbourne, 
Colonel  Killigrew,  and  Mr.  Gascoigne,  were 
early  lovers  of  the  Widow  Wycherly,  and 
had  once  been  on  the  point  of  cutting  each 
other's  throats  for  her  sake.  And,  before 
proceeding  further,  I  will  merely  hint,  that 
Dr.  Heidegger  and  all  his  four  guests  were 
sometimes  thought  to  be  a  little  beside  them 
selves;  as  is  not  unfrequently  the  case  with 
old  people,  when  worried  either  by  present 
troubles  or  woful  recollections. 

"  My  dear  old  friends,"  said  Dr.  Heidegger, 
motioning  them  to  be  seated,  "  I  am  desirous 
of  your  assistance  in  one  of  those  little  ex 
periments  with  which  I  amuse  myself  here 
in  my  study." 

If  all  stories  were  true,  Dr.  Heidegger's 
study  must  have  been  a  very  curious  place. 
It  was  a  dim,  old-fashioned  chamber,  fes 
tooned  with  cobwebs  and  besprinkled  with 
antique  dust.  Around  the  walls  stood  several 
oaken  bookcases,  the  lower  shelves  of  which 
were  filled  with  rows  of  gigantic  folios  and 
black-letter  quartos,  and  the  upper  with  little 
parchment-covered  duodecimos.  Over  the 
central  bookcase  was  a  bronze  bust  of  Hippoc- 

4 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

rates,  with  which,  according  to  some  authori 
ties,  Dr.  Heidegger  was  accustomed  to  hold 
consultations,  in  all  difficult  cases  of  his 
practice.  In  the  obscurest  corner  of  the  room 
stood  a  tall  and  narrow  oaken  closet,  with 
its  door  ajar,  within  which  doubtfully  ap 
peared  a  skeleton.  Between  two  of  the  book 
cases  hung  a  looking-glass,  presenting  its 
high  and  dusty  plate  within  a  tarnished  gilt 
frame.  Among  many  wonderful  stories  re 
lated  of  this  mirror,  it  was  fabled  that  the 
spirits  of  all  the  doctor's  deceased  patients 
dwelt  within  its  verge,  and  would  stare  him 
in  the  face  whenever  he  looked  thitherward. 
The  opposite  side  of  the  chamber  was  orna 
mented  with  the  full-length  portrait  of  a 
young  lady,  arrayed  in  the  faded  magnifi 
cence  of  silk,  satin,  and  brocade,  and  with  a 
visage  as  faded  as  her  dress.  Above  half  a 
century  ago,  Dr.  Heidegger  had  been  on  the 
point  of  marriage  with  this  young  lady;  but, 
being  affected  with  some  slight  disorder,  she 
had  swallowed  one  of  her  lover's  prescrip 
tions,  and  died  on  the  bridal  evening.  The 
greatest  curiosity  of  the  study  remains  to  be 
mentioned;  it  was  a  ponderous  folio  volume, 
bound  in  black  leather,  with  massive  silver 
clasps.  There  were  no  letters  on  the  back, 
and  nobody  could  tell  the  title  of  the  book. 
But  it  was  well  known  to  be  a  book  of  magic; 
and  once,  when  a  chambermaid  had  lifted  it, 
merely  to  brush  away  the  dust,  the  skeleton 

5 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

had  rattled  in  its  closet,  the  picture  of  the 
young  lady  had  stepped  one  foot  upon  the 
floor,  and  several  ghastly  faces  had  peeped 
forth  from  the  mirror;  while  the  brazen  head 
or'  Hippocrates  frowned,  and  said,  "  For 
bear!  " 

Such  was  Dr.  Heidegger's  study.  On  the 
summer  afternoon  of  our  tale,  a  small  round 
table,  as  black  as  ebony,  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  sustaining  a  cut-glass  vase,  of 
beautiful  form  and  elaborate  workmanship. 
The  sunshine  came  through  the  window,  be 
tween  the  heavy  festoons  of  two  faded  dam 
ask  curtains,  and  fell  directly  across  this 
vase;  so  that  a  mild  splendor  was  reflected 
from  it  on  the  ashen  visages  of  the  five  old 
people  who  sat  around.  Four  champagne- 
glasses  were  also  on  the  table. 

"  My  dear  old  friends,"  repeated  Dr.  Hei 
degger,  "  may  I  reckon  on  your  aid  in  per 
forming  an  exceedingly  curious  experiment?" 

Now  Dr.  Heidegger  was  a  very  strange  old 
gentleman,  whose  eccentricity  had  become 
the  nucleus  for  a  thousand  fantastic  stories, 
Some  of  these  fables,  to  my  shame  be  it 
spoken,  might  possibly  be  traced  back  to 
mine  own  veracious  self;  and  if  any  passages 
of  the  present  tale  should  startle  the  reader's 
faith,  I  must  be  content  to  bear  the  stigma 
of  a  fiction-monger. 

When  the  doctor's  four  guests  heard  him 
talk  of  his  proposed  experiment,  they  antici- 

6 
\ 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

pated  nothing  more  wonderful  than  the  mur 
der  of  a  mouse  in  an  air-pump,  or  the  exam 
ination  of  a  cobweb  by  the  microscope,  or 
some  similar  nonsense,  with  which  he  was 
constantly  in  the  habit  of  pestering  his  in 
timates.  But  without  waiting  for  a  reply, 
Dr.  Heidegger  hobbled  across  the  chamber, 
and  returned  with  the  same  ponderous  folio, 
bound  in  black  leather,  which  common  report 
affirmed  to  be  a  book  of  magic.  Undoing  the 
silver  clasps,  he  opened  the  volume,  and  took 
from  among  its  black-letter  pages  a  rose,  or 
what  was  once  a  rose,  though  now  the  green 
leaves  and  crimson  petals  had  assumed  one 
brownish  hue,  and  the  ancient  flower  seemed 
ready  to  crumble  to  dust  in  the  doctor's 
hands. 

"  This  rose,"  said  Dr.  Heidegger,  with  a 
sigh,  "  this  same  withered  and  crumbling 
flower,  blossomed  five-and-fifty  years  ago. 
It  was  given  me  by  Sylvia  Ward,  whose  por 
trait  hangs  yonder;  and  I  meant  to  wear  it 
in  my  bosom  at  our  wedding.  Five-and- 
fifty  years  it  has  been  treasured  between  the 
leaves  of  this  old  volume.  Now,  would  you 
deem  it  possible  that  this  rose  of  naif  a  cen 
tury  could  ever  bloom  again?  " 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Widow  Wycherly, 
with  a  peevish  toss  of  her  head.  "  You  might 
as  well  ask  whether  an  old  woman's  wrinkled 
face  could  ever  bloom  again." 

"See!  "  answered  Dr.  Heidegger. 

7 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

He  uncovered  the  vase,  and  threw  the  faded 
rose  into  the  water  which  it  contained.  At 
first,  it  lay  lightly  on  the  surface  of  the  fluid, 
appearing  to  imbibe  none  of  its  moisture. 
Soon,  however,  a  singular  change  began  to 
be  visible.  The  crushed  and  dried  petals 
stirred,  and  assumed  a  deepening  tinge  of 
crimson,  as  if  the  flower  were  reviving  from 
a  death-like  slumber;  the  slender  stalk  and 
twigs  of  foliage  became  green;  and  there  was 
the  rose  of  half  a  century,  looking  as  fresh 
as  when  Sylvia  Ward  had  first  given  it  to  her 
lover.  It  was  scarcely  full  blown;  for  some 
of  its  delicate  red  leaves  curled  modestly 
around  its  moist  bosom,  within  which  two  or 
three  dewdrops  were  sparkling. 

"  That  is  certainly  a  very  pretty  decep 
tion,"  said  the  doctor's  friends;  carelessly, 
however,  for  they  had  witnessed  greater 
miracles  at  a  conjurer's  show;  "  pray  how 
was  it  effected?  " 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  the  '  Fountain  of 
Youth,'  asked  Dr.  Heidegger,  "  which 
Ponce  de  Leon,  the  Spanish  adventurer,  went 
in  search  of,  two  or  three  centuries  ago?" 

"  But  did  Ponce  de  Leon  ever  find  it?  "  said 
the  Widow  Wycherly. 

"  No,"  answered  Dr.  Heidegger,  "  for  he 
never  sought  it  in  the  right  place.  The 
famous  Fountain  of  Youth,  if  I  am  rightly 
informed,  is  situated  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  Floridian  peninsula,  not  far  from  Lake 

8 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

Macaco.  Its  source  is  overshadowed  by  sev 
eral  gigantic  magnolias,  which,  though  num 
berless  centuries  old,  have  been  kept  as  fresh 
as  violets,  by  the  virtues  of  this  wonderful 
water.  An  acquaintance  of  mine,  knowing 
my  curiosity  in  such  matters,  has  sent  me 
what  you  see  in  the  vase. 

"Ahem!  "  said  Colonel  Killigrew,  who  be 
lieved  not  a  word  of  the  doctor's  story;  "  and 
what  may  be  the  effect  of  this  fluid  on  the 
human  frame?  " 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,  my  dear 
Colonel,"  replied  Dr.  Heidegger;  "  and  all  of 
you,  my  respected  friends,  are  welcome  to  so 
much  of  this  admirable  fluid  as  may  restore 
to  you  the  bloom  of  youth.  For  my  own  part, 
having  had  much  trouble  in  growing  old,  I 
am  in  no  hurry  to  grow  young  again.  With 
your  permission,  therefore,  I  will  merely 
watch  the  progress  of  the  experiment." 

While  he  spoke,  Dr.  Heidegger  had  been 
filling  the  four  champagne-glasses  with  the 
water  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  It  was  ap 
parently  impregnated  with  an  effervescent 
gas,  for  little  bubbles  were  continually  as 
cending  from  the  depths  of  the  glasses,  and 
bursting  in  silvery  spray  at  the  surface.  As 
the  liquor  diffused  a  pleasant  perfume,  the 
old  people  doubted  not  that  it  possessed  cor 
dial  and  comfortable  properties;  and,  though 
utter  sceptics  as  to  its  rejuvenescent  power, 
they  were  inclined  to  swallow  it  at  once.  But 

9 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Dr.  Heidegger  besought  them  to  stay  a 
moment. 

"  Before  you  drink,  my  respectable  old 
friends,"  said  he,  "  it  would  be  well  that,  with 
the  experience  of  a  life-time  to  direct  you, 
you  should  draw  up  a  few  general  rules  for 
your  guidance,  in  passing  a  second  time 
through  the  perils  of  youth.  Think  what  a 
sin  and  shame  it  would  be,  if,  with  your  pecu 
liar  advantages,  you  should  not  become  pat 
terns  of  virtue  and  wisdom  to  all  the  young 
people  of  the  age." 

The  doctor's  four  venerable  friends  made 
him  no  answer,  except  by  a  feeble  and  trem 
ulous  laugh;  so  very  ridiculous  was  the  idea, 
that,  knowing  how  closely  repentance  treads 
behind  the  steps  of  error,  they  should  ever  go 
astray  again. 

"  Drink,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  bowing. 
"  I  rejoice  that  I  have  so  well  selected  the 
subjects  of  my  experiment." 

With  palsied  hands,  they  raised  the  glasses 
to  their  lips.  The  liquor,  if  it  really  pos 
sessed  such  virtues  as  Dr.  Heidegger  imputed 
to  it,  could  not  have  been  bestowed  on  four 
human  beings  who  needed  it  more  wofully. 
They  looked  as  if  they  had  never  known  what 
youth  or  pleasure  was,  but  had  been  the  off 
spring  of  Nature's  dotage,  and  always  the 
gray,  decrepit,  sapless,  miserable  creatures 
who  now  sat  stooping  round  the  doctor's 
table,  without  life  enough  in  their  souls  or 

10 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

bodies  to  be  animated  even  by  the  prospect 
of  growing  young  again.  They  drank  off  the 
water,  and  replaced  their  glasses  on  the  table. 

Assuredly  there  was  an  almost  immediate 
improvement  in  the  aspect  of  the  party,  not 
unlike  what  might  have  been  produced  by  a 
glass  of  generous  wine,  together  with  a  sud 
den  glow  of  cheerful  sunshine,  brightening 
over  all  their  visages  at  once.  There  was  a 
healthful  suffusion  on  their  cheeks,  instead 
of  the  ashen  hue  that  had  made  them  look  so 
corpse-like.  They  gazed  at  one  another,  and 
fancied  that  some  magic  power  had  really 
begun  to  smooth  away  the  deep  and  sad  in 
scriptions  which  Father  Time  had  been  so 
long  engraving  on  their  brows.  The  Widow 
Wycherly  adjusted  her  cap,  for  she  felt  al 
most  like  a  woman  again. 

"  Give  us  more  of  this  wondrous  water!  " 
cried  they,  eagerly.  "'We  are  younger, — but 
we  are  still  too  old!  Quick, — give  us  more!  " 

"Patience,  patience!"  quoth  Dr.  Hei 
degger,  who  sat  watching  the  experiment, 
with  philosophic  coolness.  "  You  have  been 
a  long  time  growing  old.  Surely,  you  might 
be  content  to  grow  young  in  half  an  hour! 
But  the  water  is  at  your  service." 

Again  'he  filled  their  glasses  with  the  liquor 
of  youth,  enough  of  which  still  remained  in 
the  vase  to  turn  half  the  old  people  in  the 
city  to  the  age  of  their  own  grandchildren. 
While  the  bubbles  were  yet  sparkling  on  the 

11 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

brim,  the  doctor's  four  guests  snatched  their 
glasses  from  the  table,  and  swallowed  the 
contents  at  a  single  gulp.  Was  it  delusion? 
even  while  the  draught  was  passing  down 
their  throats,  it  seemed  to  have  wrought  a 
change  on  their  whole  systems.  Their  eyes 
grew  clear  and  bright;  a  dark  shade  deepened 
among  their  silvery  locks;  they  sat  around 
the  table,  three  gentlemen  of  middle  age, 
and  a  woman,  hardly  beyond  her  buxom 
prime. 

"My  dear  widow,  you  are  charming!  "  cried 
Colonel  Killigrew,  whose  eyes  had-  been  fixed 
upon  her  face,  while  the  shadows  of  age  were 
flitting  from  it  like  darkness  from  the  crim 
son  daybreak. 

The  fair  widow  knew,  of  old,  that  Colonel 
Killigrew's  compliments  were  not  always 
measured  by  sober  truth;  so  she  started  up 
and  ran  to  the  mirror,  still  dreading  that  the 
ugly  visage  of  an  old  woman  would  meet  her 
gaze.  Meanwhile,  the  three  gentlemen  be 
haved  in  such  a  manner,  as  proved  that  the 
water  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth  possessed 
some  intoxicating  qualities;  unless,  indeed, 
their  exhilaration  of  spirits  were  merely  a 
lightsome  dizziness,  caused  by  the  sudden 
removal  of  the  weight  of  years.  Mr.  Gas- 
coigne's  mind  seemed  to  run  on  political  top 
ics,  but  whether  relating  to  the  past,  present, 
or  future,  could  not  easily  be  determined, 
since  the  same  ideas  and  phrases  have  been 

12 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

in  vogue  these  fifty  years.  Now  he  rattled 
forth  full-throated  sentences  about  patriot 
ism,  national  glory,  and  the  people's  right; 
now  he  muttered  some  perilous  stuff  or  other, 
in  a  sly  and  doubtful  whisper,  so  cautiously 
that  even  his  own  conscience  could  scarcely 
catch  the  secret;  and  now,  again,  he  spoke 
in  measured  accents,  and  a  deeply  deferential 
tone,  as  if  a  royal  ear  were  listening  to  his 
well-turned  periods.  Colonel  Killigrew  all 
this  time  had  been  trolling  forth  a  jolly 
bottle-song,  and  ringing  his  glass  in  sym 
phony  with  the  chorus,  while  his  eyes  wan 
dered  toward  the  buxom  figure  of  the  Widow 
Wycherly.  On  the  other  side  of  the  table,  Mr. 
Medbourne  was  involved  in  a  calculation  of 
dollars  and  cents,  with  which  was  strangely 
intermingled  a  project  for  supplying  the  East 
Indies  with  ice,  by  harnessing  a  team  of 
whales  to  the  polar  icebergs. 

As  for  the  Widow  Wycherly,  she  stood  be 
fore  the  mirror  courtesying  and  simpering  to 
her  own  image,  and  greeting  it  as  the  friend 
whom  she  loved  better  than  all  the  world  be 
side.  She  thrust  her  face  close  to  the  glass, 
to  see  whether  some  long-remembered 
wrinkle  or  crow's-foot  had  indeed  vanished. 
She  examined  whether  the  snow  had  so  en 
tirely  melted  from  her  hair,  that  the  vene 
rable  cap  could  be  safely  thrown  aside.  At 
last,  turning  briskly  away,  she  came  with  a 
sort  of  dancing  step  to  the  table. 

13 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"  My  dear  old  doctor,"  cried  she,  "  pray 
favor  me  with  another  glass!  ' 

"Certainly,  my  dear  madam,  certainly!' 
replied  the  complaisant  doctor;  "  see!  I  have 
already  filled  the  glasses." 

There,  in  fact,  stood  the  four  glasses,  brim 
ful  of  this  wonderful  water,  the  delicate 
spray  of  which,  as  it  effervesced  from  the 
surface,  resembled  the  tremulous  glitter  of 
diamonds.  It  was  now  so  nearly  sunset,  that 
the  chamber  had  grown  duskier  than  ever; 
but  a  mild  and  moonlike  splendor  gleamed 
from  within  the  vase,  and  rested  alike  on  the 
four  guests,  and  on  the  doctor's  venerable 
figure.  He  sat  in  a  high-backed,  elaborately 
carved  oaken  arm-chair,  with  a  gray  dignity 
of  aspect  that  might  have  well  befitted  that 
very  Father  Time,  whose  power  had  never 
been  disputed,  save  by  this  fortunate  com 
pany.  Even  while  quaffing  the  third  draught 
of  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  they  were  almost 
awed  by  the  expression  of  his  mysterious 
visage. 

But,  the  next  moment,  the  exhilarating 
gush  of  young  life  shot  through  their  veins. 
They  were  now  in  the  happy  prime  of  youth. 
Age,  with  its  miserable  train  of  cares,  and 
sorrows,  and  diseases,  was  remembered  only 
as  the  trouble  of  a  dream,  from  which  they 
had  joyously  awoke.  The  fresh  gloss  of  the 
soul,  so  early  lost,  and  without  which  the 
world's  successive  scenes  had  been  but  a  gal- 

14 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

lery  of  faded  pictures,  again  threw  its  en 
chantment  over  all  their  prospects.  They 
felt  like  new-created  beings,  in  a  new-created 
universe. 

"We  are  young!  We  are  young!"  they 
cried  exultingly. 

Youth,  like  the  extremity  of  age,  had  ef 
faced  the  strongly  marked  characteristics  of 
middle  life,  and  mutually  assimilated  them 
all.  They  were  a  group  of  merry  youngsters, 
almost  maddened  with  the  exuberant  frolic- 
soineness  of  their  years.  The  most  singular 
effect  of  their  gayety  was  an  impulse  to  mock 
the  infirmity  and  decrepitude  of  which  they 
had  so  lately  been  the  victims.  They  laughed 
loudly  at  their  old-fashioned  attire,  the  wide- 
skirted  coats  and  flapped  waistcoats  of  the 
young  men,  and  the  ancient  cap  and  gown  of 
the  blooming  girl.  One  limped  across  the 
floor,  like  a  gouty  grandfather;  one  set  a  pair 
of  spectacles  astride  of  his  nose,  and  pre 
tended  to  pore  over  the  black-letter  pages  of 
the  book  of  magic;  a  third  seated  himself  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  strove  to  imitate  the  vene 
rable  dignity  of  Dr.  Heidegger.  Then  all 
shouted  mirthfully,  and  leaped  about  the 
room.  The  Widow  WTycherly — if  so  fresh  a 
damsel  could  be  called  a  widow — tripped  up 
to  the  doctor's  chair,  with  a  mischievous 
merriment  in  her  rosy  face. 

"  Doctor,  you  dear  old  soul,"  cried  she, 
"  get  up  and  dance  with  me!  "  And  then  the 

15 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

four  young  people  laughed  louder  than  ever, 
to  think  what  a  queer  figure  the  poor  old 
doctor  would  cut. 

"  Pray  excuse  me,"  answered  the  doctor, 
quietly.  "  I  am  old  and  rheumatic,  and  my 
dancing  days  were  over  long  ago.  But  either 
of  these  gay  young  gentlemen  will  be  glad 
of  so  pretty  a  partner." 

"Dance  with  me,  Clara!"  cried  Colonel 
Killigrew. 

"No,  no,  I  Will  be  her  partner!  "  shouted 
Mr.  Gascoigne. 

"  She  promised  me  her  hand,  fifty  years 
ago!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Medbourne. 

They  all  gathered  round  her.  One  caught 
both  her  hands  in  his  passionate  grasp, — an 
other  threw  his  arm  about  her  waist, — the 
third  buried  his  hand  among  the  glossy  curls 
that  clustered  beneath  the  widow's  cap. 
Blushing,  panting,  struggling,  chiding,  laugh 
ing,  her  warm  breath  fanning  each  of  their 
faces  by  turns,  she  strove  to  disengage  her 
self,  yet  still  remained  in  their  triple  em 
brace.  Never  was  there  a  livelier  picture  of 
youthful  rivalship,  with  bewitching  beauty 
for  the  prize.  Yet,  by  a  strange  deception, 
owing  to  the  duskiness  of  the  chamber,  and 
the  antique  dresses  which  they  still  wore,  the 
tall  mirror  is  said  to  have  reflected  the  figures 
of  the  three  old,  gray,  withered  grandsires, 
ridiculously  contending  for  the  skinny  ugli 
ness  of  a  shrivelled  grandam. 

16 


Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment 

But  they  were  young:  their  burning  pas 
sions  proved  them  so.  Inflamed  to  madness 
by  the  coquetry  of  the  girl-widow,  who 
neither  granted  nor  quite  withheld  her  fa 
vors,  the  three  rivals  began  to  interchange 
threatening  glances.  Still  keeping  hold  of 
the  fair  prize,  they  grappled  fiercely  at  one 
another's  throats.  As  they  struggled  to  and 
fro,  the  table  was  overturned,  and  the  vase 
dashed  into  a  thousand  fragments.  The  pre 
cious  Water  of  Youth  flowed  in  a  bright 
stream  across  the  floor,  moistening  the  wings 
of  a  butterfly,  which,  grown  old  in  the  decline 
of  summer,  had  alighted  there  to  die.  The 
insect  fluttered  lightly  through  the  chamber, 
and  settled  on  the  snowy  head  of  Dr.  Hei 
degger. 

"Come,  come,  gentlemen! — come,  Madam 
Wycherly,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "  I  really 
must  protest  against  this  riot." 

They  stood  still  and  shivered;  for  it  seemed 
as  if  gray  Time  were  calling  them  back  from 
their  sunny  youth,  far  down  into  the  chill 
and  darksome  vale  of  years.  They  looked  at 
old  Dr.  Heidegger,  who  sat  in  his  carved 
arm-chair,  holding  the  rose  of  half  a  century, 
which  he  had  rescued  from  among  the  frag 
ments  of  the  shattered  vase.  At  the  motion 
of  his  hand,  the  four  rioters  resumed  their 
seats;  the  more  readily,  because  their  violent 
exertions  had  wearied  them,  youthful  though 
they  were. 

17 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"My  poor  Sylvia's  rose!'  ejaculated  Dr. 
Heidegger,  holding  it  in  the  light  of  the  sun 
set  clouds;  "  it  appears  to  be  fading  again." 

And  so  it  was.  Even  while  the  party  were 
looking  at  it,  the  flower  continued  to  shrivel 
up,  till  it  became  as  dry  and  fragile  as  when 
the  doctor  had  first  thrown  it  into  the  vase. 
He  shook  off  the  few  drops  of  moisture  which 
clung  to  its  petals. 

"  I  love  it  as  well  thus,  as  in  its  dewy  fresh 
ness,"  observed  he,  pressing  the  withered 
rose  to  his  withered  lips.  While  he  spoke, 
the  butterfly  fluttered  down  from  the  doctor's 
snowy  head,  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

His  guests  shivered  again.  A  strange  chill- 
ness,  whether  of  the  body  or  spirit  they  could 
not  tell,  was  creeping  gradually  over  them 
all.  They  gazed  at  one  another,  and  fancied 
that  each  fleeting  moment  snatched  away  a 
charm,  and  left  a  deepening  furrow  where 
none  had  been  before.  Was  it  an  illusion? 
Had  the  changes  of  a  lifetime  been  crowded 
into  so  brief  a  space,  and  were  they  now  four 
aged  people,  sitting  with  their  old  friend,  Dr. 
Heidegger? 

"  Are  we  grown  old  again,  so  soon?  "  cried 
they,  dolefully. 

In  truth,  they  had.  The  Water  of  Youth 
possessed  merely  a  virtue  more  transient 
than  that  of  wine.  The  delirium  which  it 
created  had  effervesced  away.  Yes!  they 
were  old  again.  With  a  shuddering  impulse, 

18 


Dr.   Heidegger's  Experiment 

that  showed  her  a  woman  still,  the  widow 
clasped  her  skinny  hands  before  her  face, 
and  wished  that  the  coffin-lid  were  over  it, 
since  it  could  be  no  longer  beautiful. 

"  Yes,  friends,  ye  are  old  again,"  said  Dr. 
Heidegger;  "and  lo!  the  Water  of  Youth  is 
all  lavished  on  the  ground.  Well,  I  bemoan 
it  not;  for  if  the  fountain  gushed  at  my  very 
doorstep,  I  would  not  stoop  to  bathe  my  lips 
in  it;  no,  though  its  delirium  were  for  years 
instead  of  moments.  Such  is  the  lesson  ye 
have  taught  me!  " 

But  the  doctor's  four  friends  had  taught  no 
such  lesson  to  themselves.  They  resolved 
forthwith  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Florida, 
and  quaff  at  morning,  noon,  and  night  from 
the  Fountain  of  Youth. 

NOTE. — In  an  English  Review,  not  long  since,  I  have  been 
accused  of  plagiarizing  the  idea  of  this  story  from  a  chapter 
in  one  of  the  novels  of  Alexandre  Dumas.  There  has  un 
doubtedly  been  a  plagiarism  on  one  side  or  the  other  ;  but  as 
my  story  was  written  a  good  deal  more  than  twenty  years 
ago,  and  as  the  novel  is  of  considerably  more  recent  date,  I 
take  pleasure  in  thinking  that  M.  Dumas  has  done  me  the 
honor  to  appropriate  one  of  the  fanciful  conceptions  of  my 
earlier  days.  He  is  heartily  welcome  to  it ;  nor  is  it  the  only 
instance,  by  many,  in  which  the  great  French  romancer  has 
exercised  the  privilege  of  commanding  genius  by  confiscating 
the  intellectual  property  of  less  famous  people  to  his  own  use 
and  behoof. 

September,  1860. 


19 


The  Birthmark 


The  Birthmark 


IN  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  there 
lived  a  man  of  science,  an  eminent  proficient 
in  every  branch  of  natural  philosophy,  who 
not  long  before  our  story  opens  had  made 
experience  of  a  spiritual  affinity  more  at 
tractive  than  any  chemical  one.  He  had  left 
his  laboratory  to  the  care  of  an  assistant, 
cleared  his  fine  countenance  from  the  fur 
nace-smoke,  washed  the  stain  of  acids  from 
his  fingers,  and  persuaded  a  beautiful  woman 
to  become  his  wife.  In  those  days,  when  the 
comparatively  recent  discovery  of  electricity 
and  other  kindred  mysteries  of  Nature 
seemed  to  open  paths  into  the  region  of 
miracle,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  love  of 
science  to  rival  the  love  of  woman  in  its  depth 
and  absorbing  energy.  The  higher  intellect, 
the  imagination,  the  spirit,  and  even  the 
heart  might  all  find  their  congenial  aliment 
in  pursuits  which,  as  some  of  their  ardent 
votaries  believed,  would  ascend  from  one  step 
of  powerful  intelligence  to  another,  until  the 
philosopher  should  lay  his  hand  on  the  secret 
of  creative  force  and  perhaps  make  new 

23 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

worlds  for  himself.  We  know  not  whether 
Aylmer  possessed  this  degree  of  faith  in 
man's  ultimate  control  over  nature.  He  had 
devoted  himself,  however,  too  unreservedly 
to  scientific  studies  ever  to  be  weakened  from 
them  by  any  second  passion.  His  love  for 
his  young  wife  might  prove  the  stronger  of 
the  two;  but  it  could  only  be  by  intertwining 
itself  with  his  love  of  science  and  uniting  the 
strength  of  the  latter  to  his  own. 

Such  a  union  accordingly  took  place,  and 
was  attended  with  truly  remarkable  conse 
quences  and  a  deeply  impressive  moral.  One 
day,  very  soon  after  their  marriage,  Aylmer 
sat  gazing  at  his  wife  with  a  trouble  in  his 
countenance  that  grew  stronger  until  he 
spoke. 

"  Georgiana,"  said  he,  "  has  it  never  oc 
curred  to  you  that  the  mark  upon  your  cheek 
might  be  removed?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  smiling;  but,  per 
ceiving  the  seriousness  of  his  manner,  she 
blushed  deeply.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  it 
has  been  so  often  called  a  charm,  that  I 
vas  simple  enough  to  imagine  it  might 
be  so." 

"  Ah,  upon  another  face  perhaps  it  might," 
replied  her  husband;  "  but  never  on  yours. 
No,  dearest  Georgiana,  you  came  so  nearly 
perfect  from  the  hand  of  Nature,  that  this 
slightest  possible  defect,  which  we  hesitate 
whether  to  term  a  defect  or  a  beauty,  shocks 

24 


The  Birthmark 

me,  as  being  the  visible  mark  of  earthly  im 
perfection." 

"Shocks  you,  my  husband!  '  cried  Geor- 
giana,  deeply  hurt;  at  first  reddening  with 
momentary  anger,  but  then  bursting  into 
tears.  "  Then  why  did  you  take  me  from  my 
mother's  side?  You  cannot  love  what  shocks 
you!  " 

To  explain  this  conversation,  it  must  be 
mentioned  that  in  the  centre  of  Georgiana's 
left  cheek  there  was  a  singular  mark,  deeply 
interwoven,  as  it  were,  with  the  texture  and 
substance  of  her  face.  In  the  usual  state  of 
her  complexion — a  healthy  though  delicate 
bloom — the  mark  wore  a  tint  of  deeper  crim 
son,  which  imperfectly  defined  its  shape  amid 
the  surrounding  rosiness.  When  she  blushed 
it  gradually  became  more  indistinct,  and 
finally  vanished  amid  the  triumphant  rush 
of  blood  that  bathed  the  whole  cheek  with  its 
brilliant  glow.  But  if  any  shifting  motion 
caused  her  to  turn  pale  there  was  the  mark 
again,  a  crimson  stain  upon  the  snow,  in  what 
Aylmer  sometimes  deemed  an  almost  fearful 
distinctness.  Its  shape  bore  not  a  little 
similarity  to  the  human  hand,  though  of  the 
smallest  pygmy  size.  Georgiana's  lovers 
were  wont  to  say  that  some  fairy  at  her  birth- 
hour  had  laid  her  tiny  hand  upon  the  infant's 
cheek,  and  left  this  impress  there  in  token  of 
the  magic  endowments  that  were  to  give  her 
such  sway  over  all  hearts.  Many  a  desperate 

25 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

swain  would  have  risked  life  for  the  privilege 
of  pressing  his  lips  to  the  mysterious  hand. 
It  must  not  be  concealed,  however,  that  the 
impression  wrought  by  this  fairy  sign- 
manual  varied  exceedingly  according  to  the 
difference  of  temperament  in  the  beholders. 
Some  fastidious  persons — but  they  were  ex 
clusively  of  her  own  sex — affirmed  that  the 
bloody  hand,  as  they  chose  to  call  it,  quite  de 
stroyed  the  effect  of  Georgiana's  beauty  and 
rendered  her  countenance  even  hideous.  But 
it  would  be  as  reasonable  to  say  that  one  of 
those  small  blue  stains  which  sometimes  oc 
cur  in  the  purest  statuary  marble  would  con 
vert  the  Eve  of  Powers  to  a  monster.  Mas 
culine  observers,  if  the  birthmark  did  not 
heighten  their  admiration,  contented  them 
selves  with  wishing  it  away,  that  the  world 
might  possess  one  living  specimen  of  ideal 
loveliness  without  the  semblance  of  a  flaw. 
After  his  marriage, — for  he  thought  little  or 
nothing  of  the  matter  before, — Aylmer  dis 
covered  that  this  was  the  case  with  him 
self. 

Had  she  been  less  beautiful, — if  Envy's  self 
could  have  found  aught  else  to  sneer  at, — he 
might  have  felt  his  affection  heightened  by 
the  prettiness  of  this  mimic  hand,  now 
vaguely  portrayed,  now  lost,  now  stealing 
forth  again  and  glimmering  to  and  fro  with 
every  pulse  of  emotion  that  throbbed  within 
her  heart;  but,  seeing  her  otherwise  so  per- 

26 


The  Birthmark 

feet,  lie  found  this  one  defect  grow  more  and 
more  intolerable  with  every  moment  of  their 
united  lives.  It  was  the  fatal  flaw  of  human 
ity  which  Nature,  in  one  shape  or  another, 
stamps  ineffaceably  on  all  her  productions, 
either  to  imply  that  they  are  temporary  and 
finite,  or  that  their  perfection  must  be 
wrought  by  toil  and  pain.  The  crimson  hand 
expressed  the  ineludible  gripe  in  which  mor 
tality  clutches  the  highest  and  purest  of 
earthly  mould,  degrading  them  into  kindred 
with  the  lowest,  and  even  with  the  very 
brutes,  like  whom  their  visible  frames  return 
to  dust.  In  this  manner,  selecting  it  as  the 
symbol  of  his  wife's  liability  to  sin,  sorrow, 
decay,  and  death,  Aylmer's  sombre  imagina 
tion  was  not  long  in  rendering  the  birthmark 
a  frightful  object,  causing  him  more  trouble 
and  horror  than  ever  Georgiana's  beauty, 
whether  of  soul  or  sense,  had  given  him 
delight. 

At  all  the  seasons  which  should  have  been 
their  happiest  he  invariably,  and  without  in 
tending  it,  nay,  in  spite  of  a  purpose 'to  the 
contrary,  reverted  to  this  one  disastrous 
topic.  Trifling  as  it  at  first  appeared,  it  so 
connected  itself  with  innumerable  trains  of 
thought  and  modes  of  feeling  that  it  became 
the  central  point  of  all.  With  the  morning 
twilight  Aylmer  opened  his  eyes  upon  his 
wife's  face  and  recognized  the  symbol  of  im 
perfection;  and  when  they  sat  together  at  the 

27 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

evening  hearth  his  eyes  wandered  stealthily 
to  her  cheek,  and  beheld,  flickering  with  the 
blaze  of  the  wood-fire,  the  spectral  hand  that 
wrote  mortality  where  he  would  fain  have 
worshipped.  Georgiana  soon  learned  to 
shudder  a,t  his  gaze.  It  needed  but  a  glance 
with  the  peculiar  expression  that  his  face 
often  wore  to  change  the  roses  of  her  cheek 
into  a  death-like  paleness,  amid  which  the 
crimson  hand  was  brought  strongly  out,  like 
a  bas-relief  of  ruby  on  the  whitest  marble. 

Late  one  night,  when  the  lights  were  grow 
ing  dim  so  as  hardly  to  betray  the  stain  on 
the  poor  wife's  cheek,  she  herself,  for  the 
first  time,  voluntarily  took  up  the  subject. 

"  Do  you  remember,  my  dear  Aylmer,"  said 
she,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  have 
you  any  recollection,  of  a  dream  last  night 
about  this  odious  hand?  " 

"None!  none  whatever!  "  replied  Aylmer, 
starting;  but  then  he  added,  in  a  dry,  cold 
tone,  affected  for  the  sake  of  concealing  the 
real  depth  of  his  emotion,  "  I  might  well 
dream  of  it;  for,  before  I  fell  asleep,  it  had 
taken  a  pretty  firm  hold  of  my  fancy." 

"  And  you  did  dream  of  it? "  continued 
Georgiana,  hastily;  for  she  dreaded  lest  a 
gush  of  tears  should  interrupt  what  she  had 
to  say.  "A  terrible  dream!  I  wonder  that 
you  can  forget  it.  Is  it  possible  to  forget  this 
one  expression? — '  It  is  in  her  heart  now;  we 
must  have  it  out!  '  Reflect,  my  husband; 

28 


The  Birthmark 

for  by  all  means  I  would  have  you  recall  that 
dream." 

The  mind  is  in  a  sad  state  when  Sleep,  the 
all-involving,  cannot  confine  her  spectres 
within  the  dim  region  of  her  sway,  but  suf 
fers  them  to  break  forth,  affrighting  this 
actual  life  with  secrets  that  perchance  belong 
to  a  deeper  one.  Aylmer  now  remembered 
his  dream.  He  had  fancied  himself  with  his 
servant  Aminadab  attempting  an  operation 
for  the  removal  of  the  birthmark;  but  the 
deeper  went  the  knife,  the  deeper  sank  the 
hand,  until  at  length  its  tiny  grasp  appeared 
to  have  caught  hold  of  Georgiana's  heart; 
whence,  however,  her  husband  was  inexor 
ably  resolved  to  cut  or  wrench  it  away. 

When  the  dream  had  shaped  itself  perfectly 
in  his  memory,  Aylmer  sat  in  his  wife's  pres 
ence  with  a  guilty  feeling.  Truth  often  finds 
its  way  to  the  mind  close  muffled  in  robes  of 
sleep,  and  then  speaks  with  uncompromising 
directness  of  matters  in  regard  to  which  we 
practise  an  unconscious  self-deception  during 
our  waking  moments.  Until  now  he  had  not 
been  aware  of  the  tyrannizing  influence  ac 
quired  by  one  idea  over  his  mind,  and  of  the 
lengths  which  he  might  find  in  his  heart  to 
go  for  the  sake  of  giving  himself  peace. 

"  Aylmer,"  resumed  Georgiana,  solemnly, 
"  I  know  not  what  may  be  the  cost  to  both 
of  us  to  rid  me  of  this  fatal  birthmark.  Per 
haps  its  removal  may  cause  cureless  de- 

29 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

formity;  or  it  may  be  the  stain  goes  as  deep 
as  life  itself.  Again:  do  we  know  that  there 
is  a  possibility,  on  any  terms,  of  unclasping 
the  firm  gripe  of  this  little  hand  which  was 
laid  upon  me  before  I  came  into  the  world?  ' 

"  Dearest  Georgiana,  I  have  spent  much 
thought  upon  the  subject,"  hastily  inter 
rupted  Aylmer.  "  I  am  convinced  of  the 
perfect  practicability  of  its  removal." 

"  If  there  be  the  remotest  possibility  of  it," 
continued  Georgiana,  "  let  the  attempt  be 
made,  at  whatever  risk.  Danger  is  nothing 
to  me;  for  life,  while  this  hateful  mark  makes 
me  the  object  of  your  horror  and  disgust,— 
life  is  a  burden  which  I  would  fling  down 
with  joy.  Either  remove  this  dreadful  hand, 
or  take  my  wretched  life!  You  have  deep 
science.  All  the  world  bears  witness  of  it. 
You  have  achieved  great  wonders.  Cannot 
you  remove  this  little,  little  mark,  which  J 
cover  with  the  tips  of  two  small  fingers?  Is 
this  beyond  your  power,  for  the  sake  of  your 
own  peace,  and  to  save  your  poor  wife  from 
madness?  " 

"  Noblest,  dearest,  tenderest  wife,"  cried 
Aylmer,  rapturously,  "  doubt  not  my  power. 
I  have  already  given  this  matter  the  deepest 
thought, — thought  which  might  almost  have 
enlightened  me  to  create  a  being  less  perfect 
than  yourself.  Georgiana,  you  have  led  me 
deeper  than  ever  into  the  heart  of  science.  I 
feel  myself  fully  competent  to  render  this 

30 


The  Birthmark 

dear  cheek  as  faultless  as  its  fellow;  and 
then,  most  beloved,  what  will  be  my  triumph 
when  I  shall  have  corrected  what  Nature  left 
imperfect  in  her  fairest  work!  Even  Pyg 
malion,  when  his  sculptured  woman  assumed 
life,  felt  not  greater  ecstasy  than  mine  will 
be." 

"  It  is  resolved,  then,"  said  Georgiana, 
faintly  smiling.  "  And,  Aylmer,  spare  me 
not,  though  you  should  find  the  birthmark 
take  refuge  in  my  heart  at  last." 

Her  husband  tenderly  kissed  her  cheek, — 
her  right  cheek, — not  that  which  bore  the  im 
press  of  the  crimson  hand. 

The  next  day  Aylmer  apprised  his  wife  of 
a  plan  that  he  had  formed  whereby  he  might 
have  opportunity  for  the  intense  thought  and 
constant  watchfulness  which  the  proposed 
operation  would  require;  while  Georgiana, 
likewise,  would  enjoy  the  perfect  repose  es 
sential  to  its,  success.  They  were  to  seclude 
themselves  in  the  extensive  apartments  oc 
cupied  by  Aylmer  as  a  laboratory,  and  where, 
during  his  toilsome  youth,  he  had  made  dis 
coveries  in  the  elemental  powers  of  nature 
that  had  roused  the  admiration  of  all  the 
learned  societies  in  Europe.  Seated  calmly 
in  this  laboratory,  the  pale  philosopher  had 
investigated  the  secrets  of  the  highest  cloud- 
region  and  of  the  profoundest  mines;  he  had 
satisfied  himself  of  the  causes  that  kindled 
and  kept  alive  the  fires  of  the  volcano;  and 

31 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

had  explained  the  mystery  of  fountains,  and 
how  it  is  that  they  gush  forth,  some  so  bright 
and  pure,  and  others  with  such  rich  medicinal 
virtues,  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Here,  too,  at  an  earlier  period,  he  had  studied 
the  wonders  of  the  human  frame,  and  at 
tempted  to  fathom  the  very  process  by 
which  Nature  assimilates  all  her  precious  in 
fluences  from  earth  and  air,  and  from  the 
spiritual  world,  to  create  and  foster  man,  her 
masterpiece.  The  latter  pursuit,  however, 
Aylmer  had  long  laid  aside  in  unwilling 
recognition  of  the  truth — against  which  all 
seekers  sooner  or  later  stumble — that  our 
great  creative  Mother,  while  she  amuses  us 
with  apparently  working  in  the  broadest  sun 
shine,  is  yet  severely  careful  to  keep  her  own 
secrets,  and,  in  spite  of  her  pretended  open 
ness,  shows  us  nothing  but  results.  She  per 
mits  us,  indeed,  to  mar,  but  seldom  to  mend, 
and,  like  a  jealous  patentee,  on  no  account  to 
make.  Now,  however,  Aylmer  resumed  these 
half-forgotten  investigations;  not,  of  course, 
with  such  hopes  or  wishes  as  first  suggested 
them;  but  because  they  involved  much  physi 
ological  truth  and  lay  in  the  path  of  his  pro 
posed  scheme  for  the  treatment  of  Georgiana. 
As  he  led  her  over  the  threshold  of  the 
laboratory  Georgiana  was  cold  and  tremu 
lous.  Aylmer  looked  cheerfully  into  her  face, 
with  intent  to  reassure  her,  but  was  so 
startled  with  the  intense  glow  of  the  birth- 

32 


The  Birthmark 

mark  upon  the  whiteness  of  her  cheek  that 
he  could  not  restrain  a  strong  convulsive 
shudder.  His  wife  fainted. 

"Aminadab!  Aminadab!  "  shouted  Ayl- 
mer,  stamping  violently  on  the  floor. 

Forthwith  there  issued  from  an  inner 
apartment  a  man  of  low  stature,  but  bulky 
frame,  with  shaggy  hair  hanging  about  his 
visage,  which  was  grimed  with  the  vapors  of 
the  furnace.  This  personage  had  been  Ayl- 
mer's  underworker  during  his  whole  scientific 
career,  and  was  admirably  fitted  for  that 
office  by  his  great  mechanical  readiness,  and 
the  skill  with  which,  while  incapable  of  com 
prehending  a  single  principle,  he  executed  all 
the  details  of  his  master's  experiments.  With 
his  vast  strength,  his  shaggy  hair,  his  smoky 
aspect,  and  the  indescribable  earthiness  that 
incrusted  him,  he  seemed  to  represent  man's 
physical  nature  ;  while  Aylmer's  slender 
figure,  and  pale,  intellectual  face,  were  no 
less  apt  a  type  of  the  .spiritual  element. 

"  Throw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir, 
Aminadab,"  said  Aylmer,  "  and  burn  a 
pastil." 

"  Yes,  master,"  answered  Aminadab,  look 
ing  intently  at  the  lifeless  form  of  Geor- 
giana;  and  then  he  muttered  to  himself,  "If 
she  were  my  wife,  I'd  never  part  with  that 
birthmark." 

When  Georgiana  recovered  consciousness 
she  found  herself  breathing  an  atmosphere 

33 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

of  penetrating  fragrance,  the  gentle  potency 
of  which  had  recalled  her  from  her  death-like 
faintness.  The  scene  around  her  looked  like 
enchantment.  Aylmer  had  converted  those 
smoky,  dingy,  sombre  rooms,  where  he  had 
-spent  his  brightest  years  in  recondite  pur 
suits,  into  a  series  of  beautiful  apartments 
not  unfit  to  be  the  secluded  abode  of  a  lovely 
woman.  The  walls  were  hung  with  gorgeous 
curtains,  which  imparted  the  combination  of 
grandeur  and  grace  that  no  other  species  of 
adornment  can  achieve;  and,  as  they  fell 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  their  rich  and 
ponderous  folds,  concealing  all  angles  and 
straight  lines,  appeared  to  shut  in  the  scene 
from  infinite  space.  For  aught  Georgiana 
knew,  it  might  be  a  pavilion  among  the 
clouds.  And  Aylmer,  excluding  the  sunshine, 
which  would  have  interfered  with  his  chem 
ical  processes,  had  supplied  its  place  with 
perfumed  lamps,  emitting  flames  of  various 
hue,  but  all  uniting  in  a  soft,  impurpled 
radiance.  He  now  knelt  by  his  wife's  side, 
watching  her  earnestly,  but  without  alarm; 
for  he  was  confident  in  his  science,  and  felt 
that  he  could  draw  a  magic  circle  round  her 
within  which  no  evil  might  intrude. 

"Where  am  I?  Ah,  I  remember,"  said 
Georgiana,  faintly;  and  she  placed  her  hand 
over  her  cheek  to  hide  the  terrible  mark 
from  her  husband's  eyes. 

"Fear  not,  dearest!  "  exclr<imed  he.  "Do 

34 


The  Birthmark 

not  shrink  from  me!  Believe  me,  Georgiana, 
I  even  rejoice  in  this  single  imperfection, 
since  it  will  be  such  a  rapture  to  remove 
it." 

"0,  spare  me!"  sadly  replied  his  wife. 
"  Pray  do  not  look  at  it  again.  I  never  can 
forget  that  convulsive  shudder." 

In  order  to  soothe  Georgiana,  and,  as  it 
were,  to  release  her  mind  from  the  burden  of 
actual  things,  Aylmer  now  put  in  practice 
some  of  the  light  and  playful  secrets  which 
science  had  taught  him  among  its  profounder 
lore.  Airy  figures,  absolutely  bodiless  ideas, 
and  forms  of  unsubstantial  beauty  came  and 
danced  before  her,  imprinting  their  mo 
mentary  footsteps  on  beams  of  light.  Though 
she  had  some  indistinct  idea  of  the  method 
of  these  optical  phenomena,  still  the  illusion 
was  almost  perfect  enough  to  warrant  the 
belief  that  her  husband  possessed  sway  over 
the  spiritual  world.  Then  again,  when  she 
felt  a  wish  to  look  forth  from  her  seclusion, 
immediately,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  an 
swered,  the  procession  of  external  existence 
flitted  across  a  screen.  The  scenery  and  the 
figures  of  actual  life  were  perfectly  repre 
sented  but  with  that  bewitching  yet  inde 
scribable  difference  which  always  makes  a 
picture,  an  image,  or  a  shadow  so  much  more 
attractive  than  fhe  original.  When  wearied 
of  this,  Aylmer  bade  her  cast  her  eyes  upon 
a  vessel  containing  a  quantity  of  earth.  She 

85 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

did  so,  with  little  interest  at  first;  but  was 
soon  startled  to  perceive  the  germ  of  a  plant 
shooting  upward  from  the  soil.  Then  came 
the  slender  stalk;  the  leaves  gradually  un 
folded  themselves;  and  amid  them  was  a  per 
fect  and  lovely  flower. 

"  It  is  magical!  "  cried  Georgiana.  "  I  dare 
not  touch  it." 

"  Nay,  pluck  it,"  answered  Aylmer, — 
"  pluck  it,  and  inhale  its  brief  perfume  while 
you  may.  The  flower  will  wither  in  a  few 
moments  and  leave  nothing  save  its  brown 
seed-vessels;  but  thence  may  be  perpetuated 
a  race  as  ephemeral  as  itself." 

But  Georgiana  had  no  sooner  touched  the 
flower  than  the  whole  plant  suffered  a  blight, 
its  leaves  turning  coal-black  as  if  by  the 
agency  of  fire. 

"  There  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus,"  said 
Aylmer,  thoughtfully. 

To  make  up  for  this  abortive  experiment, 
he  proposed  to  take  her  portrait  by  a  scien 
tific  process  of  his  own  invention.  It  was  to 
be  effected  by  rays  of  light  striking  upon  a 
polished  plate  of  metal.  Georgiana  assented; 
but,  on  looking  at  the  result,  was  affrighted 
to  find  the  features  of  the  portrait  blurred 
and  indefinable;  while  the  minute  figure  of  a 
hand  appeared  where  the  cheek  should  have 
been.  Aylmer  snatched  the  metallic  plate 
and  threw  it  into  a  jar  of  corrosive  acid. 

Soon,  however,  he  forgot  these  mortifying 

36 


The  Birthmark 

failures.  In  the  intervals  of  study  and  chem 
ical  experiment  he  came  to  her  flushed  and 
exhausted,  but  seemed  invigorated  by  her 
presence,  and  spoke  in  glowing  language  of 
the  resources  of  his  art.  He  gave  a  history 
of  the  long  dynasty  of  the  alchemists,  who 
spent  so  many  ages  in  quest  of  the  universal 
solvent  by  which  the  golden  principle  might 
be  elicited  from  all  things  vile  and  base. 
Aylmer  appeared  to  believe  that,  by  the 
plainest  scientific  logic,  it  was  altogether 
within  the  limits  of  possibility  to  discover 
this  long-sought  medium.  "  But,"  he  added, 
"  a  philosopher  who  should  go  deep  enough 
to  acquire  the  power  would  attain  too  lofty 
a  wisdom  to  stoop  to  the  exercise  of  it."  Not 
less  singular  were  his  opinions  in  regard  to 
the  elixir  vitae.  He  more  than  intimated 
that  it  was  at  his  option  to  concoct  a  liquid 
that  should  prolong  life  for  years,  perhaps 
interminably;  but  that  it  would  produce  a 
discord  in  nature  which  all  the  world,  and 
chiefly  the  quaffer  of  the  immortal  nostrum, 
would  find  cause  to  curse. 

"  Aylmer,  are  you  in  earnest? "  asked 
Georgiana,  looking  at  him  with  amazement 
and  fear.  "  It  is  terrible  to  possess  such 
power,  or  even  to  dream  of  possessing  it." 

"  0,  do  not  tremble,  my  love,"  said  her 
husband.  "  I  would  not  wrong  either  you  or 
myself  by  working  such  inharmonious  effects 
upon  our  lives;  but  I  would  have  you  con- 

37 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

sider  how  trifling,  in  comparison,  is  the  skill 
requisite  to  remove  this  little  hand." 

At  the  mention  of  the  birthmark,  Geor- 
giana,  as  usual,  shrank  as  if  a  red-hot  iron 
had  touched  her  cheek 

Again  Aylmer  applied  himself  to  his  labors. 
She  could  hear  his  voice  in  the  distant  fur 
nace-room  giving  directions  to  Aminadab, 
whose  harsh,  uncouth,  misshapen  tones  were 
audible  in  response,  more  like  the  grunt  or 
growl  of  a  brute  than  human  speech.  After 
hours  of  absence,  Aylmer  reappeared  and 
proposed  that  she  should  now  examine  his 
cabinet  of  chemical  products  and  natural 
treasures  of  the  earth.  Among  the  former 
he  showed  her  a  small  vial,  in  which,  he  re 
marked,  was  contained  a  gentle  yet  most 
powerful  fragrance,  capable  of  impregnating 
all  the  breezes  that  blow  across  a  kingdom. 
They  were  of  inestimable  value,  the  contents 
of  that  little  vial;  and,  as  he  said  so,  he  threw 
some  of  the  perfume  into  the  air  and  filled 
the  room  with  piercing  and  invigorating 
delight. 

"And  what  is  this?"  asked  Georgiana, 
pointing  to  a  small  crystal  globe  containing 
a  gold-colored  liquid.  "  It  is  so  beautiful  to 
the  eye  that  I  could  imagine  it  the  elixir  of 
life." 

'  In  one  sense  it  is,"  replied  Aylmer;  "  or 
rather,  the  elixir  of  immortality.  It  is  the 
most  precious  poison  that  ever  was  concocted 

38 


The  Birthmark 

in  this  world.  By  its  aid  I  could  apportion 
the  lifetime  of  any  mortal  at  whom  you 
might  point  your  finger.  The  strength  of  the 
dose  would  determine  whether  he  were  to 
linger  out  years,  or  drop  dead  in  the  midst  of 
a  breath.  No  king  on  his  guarded  throne 
could  keep  his  life  if  I,  in  my  private  station, 
should  deem  that  the  welfare  of  millions  jus 
tified  me  in  depriving  him  of  it." 

"  Why  do  you  keep  such  a  terrific  drug?  " 
inquired  Georgiana,  in  horror. 

"  Do  not  mistrust  me,  dearest,"  said  her 
husband,  smiling;  "  its  virtuous  potency  is 
yet  greater  than  its  harmful  one.  But  see! 
here  is  a  powerful  cosmetic.  With  a  few 
drops  of  this  in  a  vase  of  water,  freckles  may 
be  washed  away  as  easily  as  the  hands  are 
cleansed.  A  stronger  infusion  would  take 
the  blood  out  of  the  cheek,  and  leave  the 
rosiest  beauty  a  pale  ghost." 

"  Is  it  with  this  lotion  that  you  intend  to 
bathe  my  cheek? "  asked  Georgiana,  anx 
iously. 

"  O  no,"  hastily  replied  her  husband;  "  this 
is  merely  superficial.  Your  case  demands  a 
remedy  that  shall  go  deeper." 

In  his  interviews  with  Georgiana,  Aylmer 
generally  made  minute  inquiries  as  to  her 
sensations,  and  whether  the  confinement  of 
the  rooms  and  the  temperature  of  the  atmos 
phere  agreed  with  her.  These  questions  had 
such  a  particular  drift  that  Georgiana  began 

39 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

to  conjecture  that  she  was  already  subjected 
to  certain  physical  influences,  either  breathed 
in  with  the  fragrant  air  or  taken  with  her 
food.  She  fancied  likewise,  but  it  might  be 
altogether  fancy,  that  there  was  a  stirring  up 
of  her  system, — a  strange,  indefinite  sensation 
creeping  through  her  veins,  and  tingling, 
half  painfully,  half  pleasurably,  at  her  heart. 
Still,  whenever  she  dared  to  look  into  the 
mirror,  there  she  beheld  herself  pale  as  a 
white  rose  and  with  the  crimson  birthmark 
stamped  upon  her  cheek.  Not  even  Aylmer 
now  hated  it  so  much  as  she. 

To  dispel  the  tedium  of  the  hours  which 
her  husband  found  it  necessary  to  devote  to 
the  processes  of  combination  and  analysis, 
Georgiana  turned  over  the  volumes  of  his 
scientific  library.  In  many  dark  old  tomes 
she  met  with  chapters  full  of  romance  and 
poetry.  They  were  the  works  of  the  philoso 
phers  of  the  Middle  Ages,  such  as  Albertus 
Magnus,  Cornelius  Agrippa,  Paracelsus,  and 
the  famous  friar  who  created  the  prophetic 
Brazen  Head.  All  these  antique  naturalists 
stood  in  advance  of  their  centuries,  yet  were 
imbued  with  some  of  their  credulity,  and 
therefore  were  believed,  and  perhaps  imag 
ined  themselves  to  have  acquired  from  the 
investigation  of  nature  a  power  above  nature, 
and  from  physics  a  sway  over  the  spiritual 
world.  Hardly  less  curious  and  imaginative 
were  the  early  volumes  of  the  Transactions 

40 


The  Birthmark 

of  the  Royal  Society,  in  which  the  members, 
knowing  little  of  the  limits  of  natural  possi 
bility,  were  continually  recording  wonders  or 
proposing  methods  whereby  wonders  might 
be  wrought. 

But,  to  Georgiana,  the  most  engrossing 
volume  was  a  large  folio  from  her  husband's 
own  hand,  in  which  he  had  recorded  every 
experiment  of  his  scientific  career,  its  orig 
inal  aim,  the  methods  adopted  for  its  develop 
ment,  and  its  final  success  or  failure,  with  the 
circumstances  to  which  either  event  was  at 
tributable.  The  book,  in  truth  was  both  the 
history  and  emblem  of  his  ardent,  ambitious, 
imaginative,  yet  practical  and  laborious  life. 
He  handled  physical  details  as  if  there  were 
nothing  beyond  them;  yet  spiritualized  them 
all,  and  redeemed  himself  from  materialism 
by  his  strong  and  eager  aspiration  towards 
the  infinite.  In  his  grasp  the  veriest  clod  of 
earth  assumed  a  soul.  Georgiana,  as  she 
read,  reverenced  Aylmer  and  loved  him  more 
profoundly  than  ever,  but  with  a  less  entire 
dependence  on  his  judgment  than  heretofore. 
Much  as  he  had  accomplished,  she  could  not 
but  observe  that  his  most  splendid  successes 
were  almost  invariably  failures,  if  compared 
with  the  ideal  at  which  he  aimed.  His 
brightest  diamonds  were  the  merest  pebbles, 
and  felt  to  be  so  by  himself,  in  comparison 
with  the  inestimable  gems  which  lay  hidden 
beyond  his  reach.  The  volume,  rich  with 

41 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

achievements  that  had  won  renown  for  its 
author,  was  yet  as  melancholy  a  record  as 
ever  mortal  hand  had  penned.  It  was  the 
sad  confession  and  continual  exemplification 
of  the  shortcomings  of  the  composite  man, 
the  spirit  burdened  with  clay  and  working  in 
matter,  and  of  the  despair  that  assails  the 
higher  nature  at  finding  itself  so  miserably 
thwarted  by  the  earthly  part.  Perhaps  every 
man  of  genius,  in  whatever  sphere,  might 
recognize  the  image  of  his  own  experience  in 
Aylmer's  journal. 

So  deeply  did  these  reflections  affect  Geor- 
giana  that  she  laid  her  face  upon  the  open 
volume  and  burst  into  tears.  In  this  situa 
tion  she  was  found  by  her  husband. 

"  It  is  dangerous  to  read  in  a  sorcerer's 
books,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  though  his 
countenance  was  uneasy  and  displeased. 
"  Georgiana,  there  are  pages  in  that  volume 
which  I  can  scarcely  glance  over  and  keep  my 
senses.  Take  heed  lest  it  prove  as  detri 
mental  to  you." 

"  It  has  made  me  worship  you  more  than 
ever,"  said  she. 

'  Ah,  wait  for  this  one  success,"  rejoined 
he,  "  then  worship  me  if  you  will.  I  shall 
deem  myself  hardly  unworthy  of  it.  But 
come,  I  have  sought  you  for  the  luxury  of 
your  voice.  Sing  to  me,  dearest." 

So  she  poured  out  the  liquid  music  of  her 
voice  to  quench  the  thirst  of  his  spirit.  He 

42 


The  Birthmark 

then  took  his  leave  with  a  boyish  exuberance 
of  gayety,  assuring  her  that  her  seclusion 
would  endure  but  a  little  longer,  and  that  the 
result  was  already  certain.  Scarcely  had  he 
departed  when  Georgiana  felt  irresistibly  im 
pelled  to  follow  him.  She  had  forgotten  to 
inform  Aylmer  of  a  symptom  which  for  two 
or  three  hours  past  had  begun  to  excite  her 
attention.  It  was  a  sensation  in  the  fatal 
birthmark,  not  painful,  but  which  induced  a 
restlessness  throughout  her  system.  Hasten 
ing  after  her  husband,  she  intruded  for  the 
first  time  into  the  laboratory. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  her  eye  was  the 
furnace,  that  hot  and  feverish  worker,  with 
the  intense  glow  of  its  fire,  which  by  the 
quantities  of  soot  clustered  above  it  seemed 
to  have  been  burning  for  ages.  There  was 
a  distilling-apparatus  in  full  operation. 
Around  the  room  were  retorts,  tubes,  cylin 
ders,  crucibles,  and  other  apparatus  of  chem 
ical  research.  An  electrical  machine  stood 
ready  for  immediate  use.  The  atmosphere 
felt  oppressively  close,  and  was  tainted  with 
gaseous  odors  which  had  been  tormented 
forth  by  the  processes  of  science.  The  severe 
and  homely  simplicity  of  the  apartment,  with 
its  naked  walls  and  brick  pavement,  looked 
strange,  accustomed  as  Georgiana  had  become 
to  the  fantastic  elegance  of  her  boudoir.  But 
what  chiefly,  indeed  almost  solely,  drew  her 
attention,  was  the  aspect  of  Aylmer  himself. 

43 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

He  was  pale  as  death,  anxious  and  ab 
sorbed,  and  hung  over  the  furnace  as  if  it 
depended  upon  his  utmost  watchfulness 
whether  the  liquid  which  it  was  distilling 
should  be  the  draught  of  immortal  happiness 
or  misery.  How  different  from  the  sanguine 
and  joyous  mien  that  he  had  assumed  for 
Georgiana's  encouragement! 

"  Carefully  now,  Aminadab;  carefully,  thou 
human  machine;  carefully,  thou  man  of 
clay,"  muttered  Aylmer,  more  to  himself  than 
his  assistant.  "  Now,  if  there  be  a  thought 
too  much  or  too  little,  it  is  all  over." 

"Ho!  ho!"  mumbled  Aminadab.  "Look, 
master!  look!  " 

Aylmer  raised  his  eyes  hastily,  and  at  first 
reddened,  then  grew  paler  than  ever,  on  be 
holding  Georgiana.  He  rushed  towards  her 
and  seized  her  arm  with  a  gripe  that  left  the 
print  of  his  fingers  upon  it. 

"Why  do  you  come  hither?  Have  you  no 
trust  in  your  husband?"  cried  he,  impetu 
ously.  "  Would  you  throw  the  blight  of  that 
fatal  birthmark  over  my  labors?  It  is  not 
well  done.  Go,  prying  woman!  go!  ' 

"  Nay,  Aylmer,"  said  Georgiana  with  the 
firmness  of  which  she  possessed  no  stinted 
endowment,  "  it  is  not  you  that  have  a  right 
to  complain.  You  mistrust  your  wife;  you 
have  concealed  the  anxiety  with  which  you 
watch  the  development  of  this  experiment. 
Think  not  so  unworthily  of  me,  my  husband. 

44 


The  Birthmark 

Tell  me  all  the  risk  we  run,  and  fear  not  that 
I  shall  shrink;  for  my  share  in  it  is  far  less 
than  your  own." 

"  No,  no,  Georgiana!  "  said  Aylmer,  impa 
tiently;  "it  must  not  be." 

"  I  submit,"  replied  she,  calmly.  "  And, 
Aylmer,  I  shall  quaff  whatever  draught  you 
bring  me;  but  it  will  be  on  the  same  principle 
that  would  induce  me  to  take  a  dose  of  poison 
if  offered  by  your  hand." 

"  My  noble  wife,"  said  Aylmer,  deeply 
moved,  "  I  knew  not  the  height  and  depth  of 
your  nature  until  now.  Nothing  shall  be 
concealed.  Know,  then,  that  this  crimson 
hand,  superficial  as  it  seems,  has  clutched  its 
grasp  into  your  being  with  a  strength  of 
which  I  had  no  previous  conception.  I  have 
already  administered  agents  powerful  enough 
to  do  aught  except  to  change  your  entire 
physical  system.  Only  one  thing  remains  to 
be  tried.  If  that  fail  us  we  are  ruined." 

"  Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  me  this?  " 
asked  she. 

"  Because,  Georgiana,"  said  Aylmer,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  there  is  danger." 

"  Danger?  There  is  but  one  danger, — that 
this  horrible  stigma  shall  be  left  upon  my 
cheek!"  cried  Georgiana.  "Remove  it,  re 
move  it,  whatever  be  the  cost,  or  we  shall 
both  go  mad!  " 

"  Heaven  knows  your  words  are  too  true," 
said  Aylmer,  sadly.  "  And  now,  dearest,  re- 

45 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

turn  to  your  boudoir.  In  a  little  while  all 
will  be  tested." 

He  conducted  her  back  and  took  leave  of 
her  with  a  solemn  tenderness  which  spoke 
far  more  than  his  words  how  much  was  now 
at  stake.  After  his  departure  Georgiana  be 
came  rapt  in  musings.  She  considered  the 
character  of  Aylmer,  and  did  it  completer 
justice  than  at  any  previous  moment.  Her 
heart  exulted,  while  it  trembled,  at  his  honor 
able  love, — so  pure  and  lofty  that  it  would 
accept  nothing  less  than  perfection,  nor 
miserably  make  itself  contented  with  an 
earthlier  nature  than  he  had  dreamed  of. 
She  felt  how  much  more  precious  was  such  a 
sentiment  than  that  meaner  kind  which  would 
have  borne  with  the  imperfection  for  her 
sake,  and  have  been  guilty  of  treason  to  holy 
love  by  degrading  its  perfect  idea  to  the  level 
of  the  actual;  and  with  her  whole  spirit  she 
prayed  that,  for  a  single  moment,  she  might 
satisfy  his  highest  and  deepest  conception. 
Longer  than  one  moment  she  well  knew  it 
could  not  be;  for  his  spirit  was  ever  on  the 
march,  ever  ascending,  and  each  instant  re 
quired  something  that  was  beyond  the  scope 
of  the  instant  before. 

The  sound  of  her  husband's  footsteps 
aroused  her.  He  bore  a  crystal  goblet  con 
taining  a  liquor  colorless  as  water,  but  bright 
enough  to  be  the  draught  of  immortality. 
Aylmer  was  pale;  but  it  seemed  rather  the 

46 


The  Birthmark 

consequence  of  a  highly  wrought  state  of 
mind  and  tension  of  spirit  than  of  fear  or 
doubt. 

"  The  concoction  of  the  draught  has  been 
perfect,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  Georgiana's 
look.  "  Unless  all  my  science  have  deceived 
me,  it  cannot  fail." 

"  Save  on  your  account,  my  dearest  Ayl- 
mer,"  observed  his  wife,  "  I  might  wish  to 
put  off  this  birthmark  of  mortality  by  relin 
quishing  mortality  itself  in  preference  to  any 
other  mode.  Life  is  but  a  sad  possession  to 
those  who  have  attained  precisely  the  degree 
of  moral  advancement  at  which  I  stand. 
Were  I  weaker  and  blinder,  it  might  be  hap 
piness.  Were  I  stronger,  it  might  be  endured 
hopefully.  But,  being  what  I  find  myself, 
methinks  I  am  of  all  mortals  the  most  fit  to 
die." 

"  You  are  fit  for  heaven  without  tasting 
death!  "  replied  her  husband.  "  But  why  do 
we  speak  of  dying?  The  draught  cannot  fail. 
Behold  its  effect  upon  this  plant." 

On  the  window-seat  there  stood  a  geranium 
diseased  with  yellow  blotches,  which  had 
overspread  all  its  leaves.  Aylmer  poured  a 
small  quantity  of  the  liquid  upon  the  soil  in 
which  it  grew.  In  a  little  time,  when  the 
roots  of  the  plant  had  taken  up  the  moisture, 
the  unsightly  blotches  began  to  be  extin 
guished  in  a  living  verdure. 

"  There  needed  no  proof,"  said  Georgiana, 

47 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

quietly.  "  Give  me  the  goblet.  I  joyfully 
stake  all  upon  your  word." 

"Drink,  then,  thou  lofty  creature!"  ex 
claimed  Aylmer,  with  fervid  admiration. 
"  There  is  no  taint  of  imperfection  on  thy 
spirit.  Thy  sensible  frame,  too,  shall  soon 
be  all  perfect." 

She  quaffed  the  liquid  and  returned  the 
goblet  to  his  hand. 

"  It  is  grateful,"  said  she,  with  a  placid 
smile.  "  Methinks  it  is  like  water  from  a 
heavenly  fountain;  for  it  contains  I  know  not 
what  of  unobtrusive  fragrance  and  delicious- 
ness.  It  allays  a  feverish  thirst  that  had 
parched  me  for  many  days.  Now,  dearest, 
let  me  sleep.  My  earthly  senses  are  closing 
over  my  spirit  like  the  leaves  around  the 
heart  of  a  rose  at  sunset." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  gentle  re 
luctance,  as  if  it  required  almost  more  energy 
than  she  could  command  to  pronounce  the 
faint  and  lingering  syllables.  Scarcely  had 
they  loitered  through  her  lips  ere  she  was 
lost  in  slumber.  Aylmer  sat  by  her  side, 
watching  her  aspect  with  the  emotions  proper 
to  a  man,  the  whole  value  of  whose  existence 
was  involved  in  the  process  now  to  be  tested. 
Mingled  with  this  mood,  however,  was  the 
philosophic  investigation  characteristic  of  the 
man  of  science.  Not  the  minutest  symptom 
escaped  him.  A  heightened  flush  of  the 
cheek,  a  slight  irregularity  of  breath,  a  quiver 

48 


The  Birthmark 

of  the  eyelid,  a  hardly  perceptible  tremor 
through  the  frame, — such  were  the  details 
which,  as  the  moments  passed,  he  wrote 
down  in  his  folio  volume.  Intense  thought 
had  set  its  stamp  upon  every  previous  page  of 
that  volume;  but  the  thoughts  of  years  were 
all  concentrated  upon  the  last. 

While  thus  employed,  he  failed  not  to  gaze 
often  at  the  fatal  hand,  and  not  without  a 
shudder.  Yet  once,  by  a  strange  and  un 
accountable  impulse,  he  pressed  it  with  his 
lips.  His  spirit  recoiled,  however,  in  the  very 
act;  and  Georgiana,  out  of  the  midst  of  her 
deep  sleep,  moved  uneasily  and  murmured, 
as  if  in  remonstrance.  Again  Aylmer  re 
sumed  his  watch.  Nor  was  it  without  avail. 
The  crimson  hand,  which  at  first  "had  been 
strongly  visible  upon  the  marble  paleness  of 
Georgiana's  cheek,  now  grew  more  faintly 
outlined.  She  remained  not  less  pale  than 
ever;  but  the  birthmark,  with  every  breath 
that  came  and  went,  lost  somewhat  of  its 
former  distinctness.  Its  presence  had  been 
awful;  its  departure  was  more  awful  still. 
Watch  the  stain  of  the  rainbow  fading  out  of 
the  sky,  and  you  will  know  how  that  mys 
terious  symbol  passed  away. 

"By  Heaven!  it  is  wellnigh  gone!  "  said 
Aylmer  to  himself,  in  almost  irrepressible 
ecstasy.  "  I  can  scarcely  trace  it  now.  Suc 
cess!  success!  And  now  it  is  like  the  faintest 
rose-color.  The  lightest  flush  of  blood  across 

49 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

her  cheek  would  overcome  it.  But  she  is  so 
pale!  " 

He  drew  aside  the  window-curtain  and  suf 
fered  the  light  of  natural  day  to  fall  into  the 
room  and  rest  upon  her  cheek.  At  the  same 
time  he  heard  a  gross,  hoarse  chuckle,  which 
he  had  long  known  as  his  servant  Aminadab's 
expression  of  delight. 

"Ah,  clod!  ah,  earthly  mass!  "  cried  Ayl- 
mer,  laughing  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  "  you  have 
served  me  well!  Matter  and  spirit — earth 
and  heaven — have  both  done  their  part  in 
this!  Laugh,  thing  of  the  senses!  You  have 
earned  the  right  to  laugh." 

These  exclamations  broke  Georgiana's 
sleep.  She  slowly  unclosed  her  eyes  and 
gazed  into  the  mirror  which  her  husband 
had  arranged  for  that  purpose.  A  faint  smile 
flitted  over  her  lips  when  she  recognized  how 
barely  perceptible  was  now  that  crimson 
hand  which  had  once  blazed  forth  with  such 
disastrous  brilliancy  as  to  scare  away  all  their 
happiness.  But  then  her  eyes  sought  Ayl- 
mer's  face  with  a  trouble  and  anxiety  that  he 
could  by  no  means  account  for. 

"  My  poor  Aylmer!  "  murmured  she. 

"  Poor?  Nay,  richest,  happiest,  most  fa 
vored!  "  exclaimed  he.  "My  peerless  bride, 
it  is  successful!  You  are  perfect!  " 

"  My  poor  Aylmer,"  she  repeated,  with  a 
more  than  human  tenderness,  "  you  have 
aimed  loftily;  you  have  done  nobly.  Do  not 

50 


The  Birthmark 

repent  that,  with  so  high  and  pure  a  feeling, 
you  have  rejected  the  best  the  earth  could 
offer.  Aylmer,  dearest  Aylmer,  I  am  dying!  " 
Alas!  it  was  too  true!  The  fatal  hand  had 
grappled  with  the  mystery  of  life,  and  was 
the  bond  by  which  an  angelic  spirit  kept 
itself  in  union  with  a  mortal  frame.  As  the 
last  crimson  tint  of  the  birthmark — that  sole 
token  of  human  imperfection  —  faded  from 
her  cheek,  the  parting  breath  of  the  now  per 
fect  woman  passed  into  the  atmosphere,  and 
her  soul,  lingering  a  moment  near  her  hus 
band,  took  its  heavenward  flight.  Then  a 
hoarse,  chuckling  laugh  was  heard  again! 
Thus  ever  does  the  gross  fatality  of  earth 
exult  in  its  invariable  triumph  over  the  im 
mortal  essence  which,  in  this  dim  sphere  of 
half-development,  demands  the  completeness 
of  a  higher  state.  Yet,  had  Aylmer  reached 
a  profounder  wisdom,  he  need  not  thus  have 
flung  away  the  happiness  which  would  have 
woven  his  mortal  life  of  the  self-same  texture 
with  the  celestial.  The  momentary  circum 
stance  was  too  strong  for  him;  he  failed  to 
look  beyond  the  shadowy  scope  of  time,  and, 
living  once  for  all  in  eternity,  to  find  the  per 
fect  future  in  the  present. 


51 


Ethan   Brand 

A     CHAPTER     FROM     AN    ABORTIVE 
ROMANCE 


Ethan   Brand 

A     CHAPTER      FROM    AN    ABORTIVE 
ROMANCE 

BARTEAM  the  lime-burner,  a  rough,  heavy- 
looking  man,  begrimed  with  charcoal,  sat 
watching  his  kiln,  at  nightfall,  while  his 
little  son  played  at  building  houses  with  the 
scattered  fragments  of  marble,  when,  on  the 
hillside  below  them,  they  heard  a  roar  of 
laughter,  not  mirthful,  but  slow,  and  even 
solemn,  like  a  wind  shaking  the  boughs  of 
the  forest. 

"Father,  what  is  that?"  asked  the  little 
boy,  leaving  his  play,  and  pressing  betwixt 
his  father's  knees. 

"  O,  some  drunken  man,  I  suppose,"  an 
swered  the  lime-burner;  "  some  merry  fellow 
from  the  bar-room  in  the  village,  who  dared 
not  laugh  loud  enough  within  doors  lest  he 
should  blow  the  roof  of  the  house  off.  So 
here  he  is,  shaking  his  jolly  sides  at,  the  foot 
of  Graylock." 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  child,  more  sen 
sitive  than  the  obtuse,  middle-aged  clown, 

55 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"  he  does  not  laugh  like  a  man  that  is  glad. 
So  the  noise  frightens  me!  " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  child!  "  cried  his  father, 
gruffly.  "  You  will  never  make  a  man,  I  do 
believe;  there  is  too  much  of  your  mother  in 
you.  I  have  known  the  rustling  of  a  leaf 
startle  you.  Hark!  Here  comes  the  merry 
fellow  now.  You  shall  see  that  there  is  no 
harm  in  him." 

Bartram  and  his  little  son,  while  they  were 
talking  thus,  sat  watching  the  same  lime-kiln 
that  had  been  the  scene  of  Ethan  Brand's 
solitary  and  meditative  life,  before  he  began 
his  search  for  the  Unpardonable  Sin.  Many 
years,  as  we  have  seen,  had  now  elapsed, 
since  that  portentous  night  when  the  IDEA 
was  first  developed.  The  kiln,  however,  on 
the  mountain-side,  stood  unimpaired,  and 
was  in  nothing  changed  since  he  had  thrown 
his  dark  thoughts  into  the  intense  glow  of  its 
furnaee,  and  melted  them,  as  it  were,  into  the 
one  thought  that  took  possession  of  his  life. 
It  was  a  rude,  round,  tower-like  structure, 
about  twenty  feet  high,  heavily  built  of  rough 
stones,  and  with  a  hillock  of  earth  heaped 
about  the  larger  part  of  its  circumference; 
so  that  the  blocks  and  fragments  of  marble 
might  be  drawn  by  cart-loads,  and  thrown  in 
at  the  top.  There  was  an  opening  at  the 
bottom  of  the  tower,  like  an  oven-mouth,  but 
large  enough  to  admit  a  man  in  a  stooping 
posture,  and  provided  with  a  massive  iron 

56 


Ethan  Brand 

door.  With  the  smoke  and  jets  of  flame  issu 
ing  from  the  chinks  and  crevices  of  this  door, 
which  seemed  to  give  admittance  into  the 
hillside,  it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the 
private  entrance  to  the  infernal  regions, 
which  the  shepherds  of  the  Delectable  Moun 
tains  were  accustomed  to  show  to  pilgrims. 

There  are  many  such  lime-kilns  in  that 
tract  of  country,  for  the  purpose  of  burning 
the  white  marble  which  composes  a  large 
part  of  the  substance  of  the  hills.  Some  of 
them,  built  years  ago,  and  long  deserted,  with 
weeds  growing  in  the  vacant  round  of  the  in 
terior,  which  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  grass 
and  wild-flowers  rooting  themselves  into  the 
chinks  of  the  stones,  look  already  like  relics 
of  antiquity,  and  may  yet  be  overspread  with 
the  lichens  of  centuries  to  come.  Others, 
where  the  lime-burner  still  feeds  his  daily 
and  night-long  fire,  afford  points  of  interest 
to  the  wanderer  among  the  hills,  who  seats 
himself  on  a  log  of  wood  or  a  fragment  of 
marble,  to  hold  a  chat  with  the  solitary  man. 
It  is  a  lonesome,  and,  when  the  character  is 
inclined  to  thought,  may  be  an  intensely 
thoughtful  occupation;  as  it  proved  in  the 
case  of  Ethan  Brand,  who  had  mused  to  such 
strange  purpose,  in  days  gone  by,  while  the 
fire  in  this  very  kiln  was  burning. 

The  man  who  now  watched  the  fire  was  of 
a  different  order,  and  troubled  himself  with 
no  thoughts  save  the  very  few  that  were 

57 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

requisite  to  his  business.  At  frequent  inter 
vals,  he  flung  back  the  clashing  weight  of  the 
iron  door,  and,  turning  his  face  from  the  in 
sufferable  glare,  thrust  in  huge  logs  of  oak, 
or  stirred  the  immense  brands  with  a  long 
pole.  Within  the  furnace  were  seen  the  curl 
ing  and  riotous  flames,  and  the  burning 
marble,  almost  molten  with  the  intensity  of 
heat;  while  without,  the  reflection  of  the  fire 
quivered  on  the  dark  intricacy  of  the  sur 
rounding  forest,  and  showed  in  the  fore 
ground  a  bright  and  ruddy  little  picture  of 
the  hut,  the  spring  beside  its  door,  the  ath 
letic  and  coal-begrimed  figure  of  the  lime- 
burner,  and  the  half-frightened  child,  shrink 
ing  into  the  protection  of  his  father's  shadow. 
And  when  again  the  iron  door  was  closed, 
then  reappeared  the  tender  light  of  the  half- 
full  moon,  which  vainly  strove  to  trace  out 
the  indistinct  shapes  of  the  neighboring 
mountains;  and,  in  the  upper  sky,  there  was 
a  flitting  congregation  of  clouds,  still  faintly 
tinged  with  the  rosy  sunset,  though  thus  far 
down  into  the  valley  the  sunshine  had  van 
ished  long  and  long  ago. 

The  little  boy  now  crept  still  closer  to  his 
father,  as  footsteps  were  heard  ascending  the 
hillside,  and  a  human  form  thrust  aside  the 
bushes  that  clustered  beneath  the  trees. 

"Halloo!  who  is  it?"  cried  the  lime- 
burner,  vexed  at  his  son's  timidity,  yet  half 
infected  by  it.  "  Come  forward,  and  show 

58 


Ethan  Brand 

yourself,  like  a  man,  or  I'll  fling  this  chunk 
of  marble  at  your  head!  ' 

"  You  offer  me  a  rough  welcome,"  said  a 
gloomy  voice,  as  the  unknown  man  drew 
nigh.  "  Yet  I  neither  claim  nor  desire  a 
kinder  one,  even  at  my  own  fireside." 

To  obtain  a  distincter  view,  Bartram  threw 
open  the  iron  door  of  the  kiln,  whence  im 
mediately  issued  a  gush  of  fierce  light,  that 
smote  full  upon  the  stranger's  face  and  figure. 
To  a  careless  eye  there  appeared  nothing 
very  remarkable  in  his  aspect,  which  was 
that  of  a  man  in  a  coarse,  brown,  country- 
made  suit  of  clothes,  tall  and  thin,  with  the 
staff  and  heavy  shoes  of  a  wayfarer.  As  he 
advanced,  he  fixed  his  eyes — which  were  very 
bright — intently  upon  the  brightness  of  the 
furnace,  as  if  he  beheld,  or  expected  to  be 
hold,  some  object  worthy  of  note  within  it. 

"  Good  evening,  stranger,"  said  the  lime- 
burner;  "  whence  come  you,  so  late  in  the 
day?" 

"  I  come  from  my  search,"  answered  the 
wayfarer;  "  for,  at  last,  it  is  finished." 

"  Drunk! — or  crazy!  "  muttered  Bartram  to 
himself.  "  I  shall  have  trouble  with  the  fel 
low.  The  sooner  I  drive  him  away,  the 
better." 

The  little  boy,  all  in  a  tremble,  whispered 
to  his  father,  and  begged  him  to  shut  the 
door  of  the  kiln,  so  that  there  might  not  be 
so  much  light;  for  that  there  was  something: 

59 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

in  the  man's  face  which  he  was  afraid  to  look 
at,  yet  could  not  look  away  from.  And,  in 
deed,  even  the  lime-burner's  dull  and  torpid 
sense  began  to  be  impressed  by  an  indescrib 
able  something  in  that  thin,  rugged,  thought 
ful  visage,  with  the  grizzled  hair  hanging 
wildly  about  it,  and  those  deeply  sunken 
eyes,  which  gleamed  like  fires  within  the  en 
trance  of  a  mysterious  cavern.  But,  as  he 
closed  the  door,  the  stranger  turned  towards 
him,  and  spoke  in  a  quiet,  familiar  way,  that 
made  Bartram  feel  as  if  he  were  a  sane  and 
sensible  man,  after  all. 

"  Your  task  draws  to  an  end,  I  see,"  said 
he.  "  This  marble  has  already  been  burning 
three  days.  A  few  hours  more  will  convert 
the  stone  to  lime." 

"  Why,  who  are  you?  "  exclaimed  the  lime- 
burner.  "  You  seem  as  well  acquainted  with 
my  business  as  I  am  myself." 

"  And  well  I  may  be,"  said  the  stranger; 
"  for  I  followed  the  same  craft  many  a  long 
year,  and  here,  too,  on  this  very  spot.  But 
you  are  a  new-comer  in  these  parts.  Did 
you  never  hear  of  Ethan  Brand?  ' 

"  The  man  that  went  in  search  of  the  Un 
pardonable  Sin? "  asked  Bartram,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  The  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "  He 
has  found  what  he  sought,  and  therefore  he 
comes  back  again." 

"What!  then  you  are  Ethan  Brand  him- 

60 


Ethan  Brand 

self?  "  cried  the  lime-burner,  in  amazement. 
"  I  am  a  new-comer  here,  as  you  say,  and 
they  call  it  eighteen  years  since  you  left  the 
foot  of  Graylock.  But,  I  can  tell  you,  the 
good  folks  still  talk  about  Ethan  Brand,  in 
the  village  yonder,  and  what  a  strange  errand 
took  him  away  from  his  lime-kiln.  Well, 
and  so  you  have  found  the  Unpardonable 
Sin?" 

"Even  so!  "  said  the  stranger,  calmly. 

"  If  the  question  is  a  fair  one,"  proceeded 
Bartram,  "  where  might  it  be?  " 

Ethan  Brand  laid  his  finger  on  his  own 
heart. 

"Here!  "  replied  he. 

And  then,  without  mirth  in  his  countenance, 
but  as  if  moved  by  an  involuntary  recogni 
tion  of  the  infinite  absurdity  of  seeking 
throughout  the  world  for  what  was  the  clos 
est  of  all  things  to  himself,  and  looking  into 
every  heart,  save  his  own,  for  what  was 
hidden  in  no  other  breast,  he  broke  into  a 
laugh  of  scorn.  It  was  the  same  slow,  heavy 
laugh,  that  had  almost  appalled  the  lime- 
burner  when  it  heralded  the  wayfarer's 
approach. 

The  solitary  mountain-side  was  made  dis 
mal  by  it.  Laughter,  when  out  of  place,  mis 
timed,  or  bursting  forth  from  a  disordered 
state  of  feeling,  may  be  the  most  terrible 
modulation  of  the  human  voice.  The  laugh 
ter  of  one  asleep,  even  if  it  be  a  little  child, — 

61 


Nathaniel   Hawthorne 

the  madman's  laugh, — the  wild,  screaming 
laugh  of  a  born  idiot, — are  sounds  that  we 
sometimes  tremble  to  hear,  and  would  always 
willingly  forget.  Poets  have  imagined  no 
utterance  of  fiends  or  hobgoblins  so  fearfully 
appropriate  as  a  laugh.  And  even  the  obtuse 
lime-burner  felt  his  nerves  shaken,  as  this 
strange  man  looked  inward  at  his  own  heart, 
and  burst  into  laughter  that  rolled  away  into 
the  night,  and  was  indistinctly  reverberated 
among  the  hills. 

"  Joe,"  said  he  to  his  little  son,  "  scamper 
down  to  the  tavern  in  the  village,  and  tell  the 
jolly  fellows  there  that  Ethan  Brand  has 
come  back,  and  that  he  has  found  the  Un 
pardonable  Sin!  " 

The  boy  darted  away  on  his  errand,  to 
which  Ethan  Brand  made  no  objection,  nor 
seemed  hardly  to  notice  it.  He  sat  on  a  log 
of  wood,  looking  steadfastly  at  the  iron  door 
of  the  kiln.  When  the  child  was  out  of  sight, 
and  his  swift  and  light  footsteps  ceased  to  be 
heard  treading  first  on  the  fallen  leaves  and 
then  on  the  rocky  mountain-path,  the  lime- 
burner  began  to  regret  his  departure.  He 
felt  that  the  little  fellow's  presence  had  been 
a  barrier  between  his  guest  and  himself,  and 
that  he  must  now  deal,  heart  to  heart,  with  a 
man  who,  on  his  own  confession,  had  com 
mitted  the  one  only  crime  for  which  Heaven 
could  afford  no  mercy.  That  crime,  in  its  in 
distinct  blackness,  seemed  to  overshadow 

62 


Ethan  Brand 

him.  The  lime-burner's  own  sins  rose  up 
within  him,  and  made  his  memory  riotous 
with  a  throng  of  evil  shapes  that  asserted 
their  kindred  with  the  Master  Sin,  whatever 
it  might  be,  which  it  was  within  the  scope  of 
man's  corrupted  nature  to  conceive  and  cher 
ish.  They  were  all  of  one  family;  they  went 
to  and  fro  between  his  breast  and  Ethan 
Brand's,  and  carried  dark  greetings  from  one 
to  the  other. 

Then  Bartram  remembered  the  stories 
which  had  grown  traditionary  in  reference  to 
this  strange  man,  who  had  come  upon  him 
like  a  shadow  of  the  night,  and  was  making 
himself  at  home  in  his  old  place,  after  so 
long  absence  that  the  dead  people,  dead  and 
buried  for  years,  would  have  had  more  right 
to  be  at  home,  in  any  familiar  spot,  than  he. 
Ethan  Brand,  it  was  said,  had  conversed  with 
Satan  himself  in  the  lurid  blaze  of  this  very 
kiln.  The  legend  had  been  matter  of  mirth 
heretofore,  but  looked  grisly  now.  Accord 
ing  to  this  tale,  before  Ethan  Brand  departed 
on  his  search,  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
evoke  a  fiend  from  the  hot  furnace  of  the 
lime-kiln,  night  after  night,  in  order  to  con 
fer  with  him  about  the  Unpardonable  Sin; 
the  man  and  the  fiend  each  laboring  to  frame 
the  image  of  some  mode  of  guilt  which  could 
neither  be  atoned  for  nor  forgiven.  And, 
with  the  first  gleam  of  light  upon  the  moun 
tain-top,  the  fiend  crept  in  at  the  iron  door, 

63 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

there  to  abide  the  intensest  element  of  fire, 
until  again  summoned  forth  to  share  in  the 
dreadful  task  of  extending  man's  possible 
guilt  beyond  the  scope  of  Heaven's  else  in 
finite  mercy. 

While  the  lime-burner  was  struggling  with 
the  horror  of  these  thoughts,  Ethan  Brand 
rose  from  the  log,  and  flung  open  the  door  of 
the  kiln.  The  action  was  in  such  accordance 
with  the  idea  in  Bartram's  mind,  that  he  al 
most  expected  to  see  the  Evil  One  issue  forth, 
red-hot  from  the  raging  furnace. 

"  Hold!  hold!  "  cried  he,  with  a  tremulous 
attempt  to  laugh;  for  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
fears,  although  they  overmastered  him. 
"  Don't,  for  mercy's  sake,  bring  out  your 
Devil  now!  ' 

"Man!"  sternly  replied  Ethan  Brand, 
"  what  need  have  I  of  the  Devil?  I  have  left 
him  behind  me,  on  my  track.  It  is  with  such 
half-way  sinners  as  you  that  he  busies  him 
self.  Fear  not,  because  I  open  the  door.  I 
do  but  act  by  old  custom,  and  am  going  to 
trim  your  fire,  like  a  lime-burner,  as  I  was 
once." 

He  stirred  the  vast  coals,  thrust  in  more 
wood,  and  bent  forward  to  gaze  into  the  hol 
low  prison-house  of  the  fire,  regardless  of  the 
fierce  glow  that  reddened  upon  his  face.  The 
lime-burner  sat  watching  him,  and  half  sus 
pected  his  strange  guest  of  a  purpose,  if  not 
to  evoke  a  fiend,  at  least  to  plunge  bodily 

64 


Ethan  Brand 

nto  the  flames,  and  thus  vanish  from  the 
sight  of  man.  Ethan  Brand,  however,  drew 
quietly  back,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  kiln. 

"  I  have  looked,"  said  he,  "  into  many  a 
human  heart  that  was  seven  times  hotter 
with  sinful  passions  than  yonder  furnace  is 
with  fire.  But  I  found  not  there  what  I 
sought.  No,  not  the  Unpardonable  Sin!  ' 

"What  is  the  Unpardonable  Sin?"  asked 
the  lime-burner;  and  then  he  shrank  farther 
from  his  companion,  trembling  lest  his  ques 
tion  should  be  answered. 

"  It  is  a  sin  that  grew  within  my  own 
breast,"  replied  Ethan  Brand,  standing  erect, 
with  a  pride  that  distinguishes  all  enthu 
siasts  of  his  stamp.  "  A  sin  that  grew  no 
where  else!  The  sin  of  an  intellect  that 
triumphed  over  the  sense  of  brotherhood 
with  man  and  reverence  for  God,  and  sacri 
ficed  everything  to  its  own  mighty  claims! 
The  only  sin  that  deserves  a  recompense  of 
immortal  agony!  Freely,  were  it  to  do  again, 
would  I  incur  the  guilt.  Unshrinkingly  I 
accept  the  retribution!  ' 

"  The  man's  head  is  turned,"  muttered  the 
lime-burner  to  himself.  "  He  may  be  a  sin 
ner,  like  the  rest  of  us, — nothing  more  likely, 
— but,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  is  a  madman  too." 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  uncomfortable  at  his 
situation,  alone  with  Ethan  Brand  on  the 
wild  mountain-side,  and  was  right  glad  to 
hear  the  rough  murmur  of  tongues,  and  the 

65 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

footsteps  of  what  seemed  a  pretty  numerous 
party,  stumbling  over  the  stones  and  rustling 
through  the  underbrush.  Soon  appeared  the 
whole  lazy  regiment  that  was  wont  to  infest 
the  village  tavern,  comprehending  three  or 
four  individuals  who  had  drunk  flip  beside 
the  bar-room  fire  through  all  the  winters, 
and  smoked  their  pipes  beneath  the  stoop 
through  all  the  summers,  since  Ethan 
Brand's  departure.  Laughing  boisterously, 
and  mingling  all  their  voices  together  in 
unceremonious  talk,  they  now  burst  into  the 
moonshine  and  narrow  streaks  of  firelight 
that  illuminated  the  open  space  before  the 
lime-kiln.  Bartram  set  the  door  ajar  again, 
flooding  the  spot  with  light,  that  the  whole 
company  might  get  a  fair  view  of  Ethan 
Brand,  and  he  of  them. 

There,  among  other  old  acquaintances,  was 
a  once  ubiquitous  man,  now  almost  extinct, 
but  whom  we  were  formerly  sure  to  encoun 
ter  at  the  hotel  of  every  thriving  village 
throughout  the  country.  It  was  the  stage- 
agent.  The  present  specimen  of  the  genus 
was  a  wilted  and  smoke-dried  man,  wrinkled 
and  red-nosed,  in  a  smartly  cut,  brown,  bob- 
tailed  coat,  with  brass  buttons,  who,  for  a 
length  of  time  unknown,  had  kept  his  desk 
and  corner  in  the  bar-room,  and  was  still 
puffing  what  seemed  to  be  the  same  cigar 
that  he  had  lighted  twenty  years  before.  He 
had  great  fame  as  a  dry  joker,  though,  per- 

66 


Ethan  Brand 

haps,  less  on  account  of  any  intrinsic  humor 
than  from  a  certain  flavor  of  brandy-toddy 
and  tobacco-smoke,  which  impregnated  all 
his  ideas  and  expressions,  as  well  as  his 
person.  Another  well-remembered  though 
strangely  altered  face  was  that  of  Lawyer 
Giles,  as  people  still  called  him  In  courtesy; 
an  elderly  ragamuffin,  in  his  soiled  shirt 
sleeves  and  tow-cloth  trousers.  This  poor 
fellow  had  been  an  attorney,  in  what  he 
called  his  better  days,  a  sharp  practitioner, 
and  in  great  vogue  among  the  village  liti 
gants;  but  flip,  and  sling,  and  toddy,  and 
cocktails,  imbibed  at  all  hours,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  had  caused  him  to  slide 
from  intellectual  to  various  kinds  and  de 
grees  of  bodily  labor,  till,  at  last,  to  adopt 
his  own  phrase,  he  slid  into  a  soap-vat.  In 
other  words,  Giles  was  now  a  soap-boiler,  in 
a  small  way.  He  had  come  to  be  but  the 
fragment  of  a  human  being,  a  part  of  one  foot 
having  been  chopped  off  by  an  axe,  and  an 
entire  hand  torn  away  by  the  devilish  grip 
of  a  steam-engine.  Yet,  though  the  corporeal 
hand  was  gone,  a  spiritual  member  re 
mained;  for,  stretching  forth  the  stump, 
Giles  steadfastly  averred  that  he  felt  an  in 
visible  thumb  and  fingers  with  as  vivid  a 
sensation  as  before  the  real  ones  were  ampu 
tated.  A  maimed  and  miserable  wretch  he 
was;  but  one,  nevertheless,  whom  the  world 
could  not  trample  on,  and  had  no  right  to 

67 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

scorn,  either  in  this  or  any  previous  stage  of 
his  misfortunes,  since  he  had  still  kept  up  the 
courage  and  spirit  of  a  man,  asked  nothing 
in  charity,  and  with  his  one  hand — and  that 
the  left  one — fought  a  stern  battle  against 
want  and  hostile  circumstances. 

Among  the  throng,  too,  came  another  per 
sonage,  who,  with  certain  points  of  similar 
ity  to  Lawyer  Giles,  had  many  more  of  dif 
ference.  It  was  the  village  doctor;  a  man  of 
some  fifty  years,  whom,  at  an  earlier  period 
of  his  life,  we  introduced  as  paying  a  pro 
fessional  visit  to  Ethan  Brand  during  the 
latter's  supposed  insanity.  He  was  now  a 
purple-visaged,  rude,  and  brutal,  yet  half- 
gentlemanly  figure,  with  something  wild, 
ruined,  and  desperate  in  his  talk,  and  in  all 
the  details  of  his  gesture  and  manners. 
Brandy  possessed  this  man  like  an  evil  spirit, 
and  made  him  as  surly  and  savage  as  a  wild 
beast,  and  as  miserable  as  a  lost  soul;  but 
there  was  supposed  to  be  in  him  such  won 
derful  skill,  such  native  gifts  of  healing,  be 
yond  any  which  medical  science  could  impart, 
that  society  caught  hold  of  him,  and  would 
not  let  him  sink  out  of  its  reach.  So, 
swaying  to  and  fro  upon  his  horse,  and 
grumbling  thick  accents  at  the  bedside,  he 
visited  all  the  sick-chambers  for  miles  about 
among  the  mountain  towns,  and  sometimes 
raised  a  dying  man,  as  it  were,  by  miracle,  or 
quite  as  often,  no  doubt,  sent  his  patient  to 

68 


Ethan  Brand 

a  grave  that  was  dug  many  a  year  too  soon. 
The  doctor  had  an  everlasting  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and,  as  somebody  said,  in  allusion  to 
his  habit  of  swearing,  it  was  always  alight 
with  hell-fire. 

These  three  worthies  pressed  forward,  and 
greeted  Ethan  Brand  each  after  his  own 
fashion,  earnestly  inviting  him  to  partake  of 
the  contents  of  a  certain  black  bottle,  in 
which,  as  they  averred,  he  would  find  some 
thing  far  better  worth  seeking  for  than  the 
Unpardonable  Sin.  No  mind,  which  has 
wrought  itself  by  intense  and  solitary  medi 
tation  into  a  high  state  of  enthusiasm,  can 
endure  the  kind  of  contact  with  low  and  vul 
gar  modes  of  thought  and  feeling  to  which 
Ethan  Brand  was  now  subjected.  It  made 
him  doubt — and,  strange  to  say,  it  was  a 
painful  doubt — whether  he  had  indeed  found 
the  Unpardonable  Sin  and  found  it  within 
himself.  The  whole  question  on  which  he 
had  exhausted  life,  and  more  than  life,  looked 
like  a  delusion. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  ye  brute 
beasts,  that  have  made  yourselves  so,  shrivel 
ling  up  your  souls  with  fiery  liquors!  I  have 
done  with  you.  Years  and  years  ago,  I 
groped  into  your  hearts,  and  found  nothing 
there  for  my  purpose.  Get  ye  gone!  " 

"  Why,  you  uncivil  scoundrel,"  cried  the 
fierce  doctor,  "  is  that  the  way  you  respond 
to  the  kindness  of  your  best  friends?  Then 

G9 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

let  me  tell  you  the  truth.  You  have  no  more 
found  the  Unpardonable  Sin  than  yonder  boy 
Joe  has.  You  are  but  a  crazy  fellow, — I  told 
you  so  twenty  years  ago, — neither  better  nor 
worse  than  a  crazy  fellow,  and  the  fit  com 
panion  of  old  Humphrey,  here!  ' 

He  pointed  to  an  old  man,  shabbily  dressed, 
with  long  white  hair,  thin  visage,  and  un 
steady  eyes.  For  some  years  past  this  aged 
person  had  been  wandering  about  among  the 
hills,  inquiring  of  all  travellers  whom  he  met 
for  his  daughter.  The  girl,  it  seemed,  had 
gone  off  with  a  company  of  circus-perform 
ers;  and  occasionally  tidings  of  her  came  to 
the  village,  and  fine  stories  were  told  of  her 
glittering  appearance  as  she  rode  on  horse 
back  in  the  ring,  or  performed  marvellous 
feats  on  the  tight-rope. 

The  white-haired  father  now  approached 
Ethan  Brand,  and  gazed  unsteadily  into  his 
face. 

"  They  tell  me  you  have  been  all  over  the 
earth,"  said  he,  wringing  his  hands  with 
earnestness.  "  You  must  have  seen  my 
daughter,  for  she  makes  a  grand  figure  in 
the  world,  and  everybody  goes  to  see  her. 
Did  she  send  any  word  to  her  old  father,  or 
say  when  she  was  coming  back?  ' 

Ethan  Brand's  eye  quailed  beneath  the  old 
man's.  That  daughter,  from  whom  he  so 
earnestly  desired  a  word  of  greeting,  was  the 
Esther  of  our  tale,  the  very  girl  whom,  with 

70 


Ethan  Brand 

such  cold  and  remorseless  purpose,  Ethan 
Brand  had  made  the  subject  of  a  psychologi 
cal  experiment,  and  wasted,  absorbed,  and 
perhaps  annihilated  her  soul,  in  the  process. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  he,  turning  away  from 
the  hoary  wanderer;  "  it  is  no  delusion. 
There  is  an  Unpardonable  Sin!  " 

While  these  things  were  passing,  a  merry 
scene  was  going  forward  in  the  area  of  cheer 
ful  light,  beside  the  spring  and  before  the 
door  of  the  hut.  A  number  of  the  youth  of 
the  village,  young  men  and  girls,  had  hurried 
up  the  hillside,  impelled  by  curiosity  to  see 
Ethan  Brand,  the  hero  of  so  many  a  legend 
familiar  to  their  childhood.  Finding  noth 
ing,  however,  very  remarkable  in  his  aspect, 
— nothing  but  a  sunburnt  wayfarer,  in  plain 
garb  and  dusty  shoes,  who  sat  looking  into 
the  fire,  as  if  he  fancied  pictures  among  the 
coals, — these  young  people  speedily  grew 
tired  of  observing  him.  As  it  happened, 
there  was  other  amusement  at  hand.  An  old 
German  Jew,  travelling  with  a  diorama  on 
his  back,  was  passing  down  the  mountain- 
road  towards  the  village  just  as  the  party 
turned  aside  from  it,  and,  in  hopes  of  eking 
out  the  profits  of  the  day,  the  showman  had 
kept  them  company  to  the  lime-kiln. 

"  Come,  old  Dutchman,"  cried  one  of  the 
young  men,  "  let  us  see  your  pictures,  if  you 
can  swear  they  are  worth  looking  at!  " 

"  0  yes,  Captain,"  answered  the  Jew, — 

71 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

whether  as  a  matter  of  courtesy  or  craft,  he 
styled  everybody  Captain, — "  I  shall  show 
you,  indeed,  some  very  superb  pictures!  " 

So,  placing  his  box  in  a  proper  position,  he 
invited  the  young  men  and  girls  to  look 
through  the  glass  orifices  of  the  machine, 
and  proceeded  to  exhibit  a  series  of  the  most 
outrageous  scratchings  and  daubings,  as 
specimens  of  the  fine  arts,  that  ever  an  itin 
erant  showman  had  the  face  to  impose  upon 
his  circle  of  spectators.  The  pictures  were 
worn  out,  moreover,  tattered,  full  of  tracks 
and  wrinkles,  dingy  with  tobacco-smoke,  and 
otherwise  in  a  most  pitiable  condition.  Some 
purported  to  be  cities,  public  edifices,  and 
ruined  castles  in  Europe;  others  represented 
Napoleon's  battles  and  Nelson's  sea-fights; 
and  in  the  midst  of  these  would  be  seen  a 
gigantic,  brown,  hairy  hand, — which  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  the  Hand  of  Destiny, 
though,  in  truth,  it  was  only  the  showman's, 
— pointing  its  forefinger  to  various  scenes  of 
the  conflict,  while  its  owner  gave  historical 
illustrations.  When,  with  much  merriment 
at  its  abominable  deficiency  of  merit,  the  ex 
hibition  was  concluded,  the  German  bade 
little  Joe  put  his  head  into  the  box.  Viewed 
through  the  magnifying-glasses,  the  boy's 
round,  rosy  visage  assumed  the  strangest  im 
aginable  aspect  of  an  immense  Titanic  child, 
the  mouth  grinning  broadly,  and  the  eyes  and 
every  other  feature  overflowing  with  fun  at 

72 


Ethan  Brand 

the  joke.  Suddenly,  however,  that  merry 
face  turned  pale,  and  its  expression  changed 
to  horror,  for  this  easily  impressed  and  ex 
citable  child  had  become  sensible  that  the  eye 
of  Ethan  Brand  was  fixed  upon  him  through 
the  glass. 

"  You  make  the  little  man  to  be  afraid, 
Captain,"  said  the  German  Jew,  turning  up 
the  dark  and  strong  outline  of  his  visage, 
from  his  stooping  posture.  "  But  look  again, 
and,  by  chance,  I  shall  cause  you  to  see  some 
what  that  is  very  fine,  upon  my  word!  " 

Ethan  Brand  gazed  into  the  box  for  an  in 
stant,  and  then  starting  back,  looked  fixedly 
at  the  German.  What  had  he  seen?  Noth 
ing,  apparently;  for  a  curious  youth,  who 
had  peeped  in  almost  at  the  same  moment, 
beheld  only  a  vacant  space  of  canvas. 

"  I  remember  you  now,"  muttered  Ethan 
Brand  to  the  showman. 

"  Ah,  Captain,"  whispered  the  Jew  of 
Nuremburg,  with  a  dark  smile,  "  I  find  it  to 
be  a  heavy  matter  in  my  show-box, — this 
Unpardonable  Sin!  By  my  faith,  Captain,  it 
has  wearied  my  shoulders,  this  long  day,  to 
carry  it  over  the  mountain." 

"  Peace,"  answered  Ethan  Brand,  sternly, 
"  or  get  thee  into  the  furnace  yonder!  " 

The  Jew's  exhibition  had  scarcely  con 
cluded,  when  a  great,  elderly  dog  —  who 
seemed  to  be  his  own  master,  as  no  person 
in  the  company  laid  claim  to  him — saw  fit  to 

73 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

\ 

render  himself  the  object  of  public  notice. 
Hitherto,  he  had  shown  himself  a  very  quiet, 
well-disposed  old  dog,  going  round  from  one 
to  another,  and,  by  way  of  being  sociable, 
offering  his  rough  head  to  be  patted  by  any 
kindly  hand  that  would  take  so  much  trouble. 
But  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  this  grave  and  ven 
erable  quadruped,  of  his  own  mere  motion, 
and  without  the  slightest  suggestion  from 
anybody  else,  began  to  run  round  after  his 
tail,  which,  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the 
proceeding,  was  a  great  deal  shorter  than  it 
should  have  been.  Never  was  seen  such 
headlong  eagerness  in  pursuit  of  an  object 
that  could  not  possibly  be  attained;  never 
was  heard  such  a  tremendous  outbreak  of 
growling,  snarling,  barking,  and  snapping, 
— as  if  one  end  of  the  ridiculous  brute's 
body  were  at  deadly  and  most  unforgivable 
enmity  with  the  other.  Faster  and  faster, 
round  about  went  the  cur;  and  faster  and 
still  faster  fled  the  unapproachable  brevity  of 
his  tail;  and  louder  and  fiercer  grew  his  yells 
of  rage  and  animosity;  until,  utterly  ex 
hausted,  and  as  far  from  the  goal  as  ever, 
the  foolish  old  dog  ceased  his  performance 
as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun  it.  The  next 
moment  he  was  as  mild,  quiet,  sensible,  and 
respectable  in  his  deportment,  as  when  he 
first  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  company. 
As  may  be  supposed,  the  exhibition  was 
greeted  with  universal  laughter,  clapping  of 

74 


Ethan  Brand 

hands,  and  shouts  of  encore,  to  which  the 
canine  performer  responded  by  wagging  all 
that  there  was  to  wag  of  his  tail,  but  ap 
peared  totally  unable  to  repeat  his  very  suc 
cessful  effort  to  amuse  the  spectators. 

Meanwhile,  Ethan  Brand  had  resumed  his 
seat  upon  the  log,  and  moved,  it  might  be,  by 
a  perception  of  some  remote  analogy  between 
his  own  case  and  that  of  this  self-pursuing 
cur,  he  broke  into  the  awful  laugh,  which, 
more  than  any  other  token,  expressed  the 
condition  of  his  inward  being.  From  that 
moment,  the  merriment  of  the  party  was  at 
an  end;  they  stood  aghast,  dreading  lest  the 
inauspicious  sound  should  be  reverberated 
around  the  horizon,  and  that  mountain  would 
thunder  it  to  mountain,  and  so  the  horror 
be  prolonged  upon  their  ears.  Then,  whis 
pering  one  to  another  that  it  was  late, — that 
the  moon  was  almost  down, — that  the  August 
night  was  growing  chill, — they  hurried  home 
wards,  leaving  the  lime-burner  and  little  Joe 
to  deal  as  they  might  with  their  unwelcome 
guest.  Save  for  these  three  human  beings, 
the  open  space  on  the  hillside  was  a  solitude, 
set  in  a  vast  gloom  of  forest.  Beyond  that 
darksome  verge,  the  firelight  glimmered  on 
the  stately  trunks  and  almost  black  foliage 
of  pines,  intermixed  with  the  lighter  verdure 
of  sapling  oaks,  maples,,  and  poplars,  while 
here  and  there  lay  the  gigantic  corpses  of 
dead  trees,  decaying  on  the  leaf-strewn  soil. 

75 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

And  it  seemed  to  little  Joe — a  timorous  and 
imaginative  child — that  the  silent  forest  was 
holding  its  breath,  until  some  fearful  thing 
should  happen. 

Ethan  Brand  thrust  more  wood  into  the 
fire,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  kiln;  then 
looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  lime-burner 
and  his  son,  he  bade,  rather  than  advised, 
them  to  retire  to  rest. 

"  For  myself,  I  cannot  sleep,"  said  he.  "  I 
have  matters  that  it  concerns  me  to  meditate 
upon.  I  will  watch  the  fire,  as  I  used  to  do 
in  the  old  time." 

"  And  call  the  Devil  out  of  the  furnace  to 
keep  you  company,  I  suppose,"  muttered  Bar- 
tram,  who  had  been  making  intimate  ac 
quaintance  with  the  black  bottle  above  men 
tioned.  "  But  watch,  if  you  like,  and  call  as 
many  devils  as  you  like!  For  my  part,  I 
shall  be  all  the  better  for  a  snooze.  Come, 
Joe!  " 

As  the  boy  followed  his  father  into  the 
hut,  he  looked  back  at  the  wayfarer,  and  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes,  for  his  tender  spirit 
had  an  intuition  of  the  bleak  and  terrible 
loneliness  in  which  this  man  had  enveloped 
himself. 

When  they  had  gone,  Ethan  Brand  sat  lis 
tening  to  the  crackling  of  the  kindled  wood, 
and  looking  at  the  little  spirts  of  fire  that 
issued  through  the  chinks  of  the  door.  These 
trifles,  however,  once  so  familiar,  had  but  the 

76 


Ethan  Brand 

slightest  hold  of  his  attention,  while  deep 
within  his  mind  he  was  reviewing  the  grad 
ual  but  marvellous  change  that  had  been 
wrought  upon  him  by  the  search  to  which  he 
had  devoted  himself.  He  remembered  how 
the  night  dew  had  fallen  upon  him, — how  the 
dark  forest  had  whispered  to  him, — how 
the  stars  had  gleamed  upon  him, — a  simple 
and  loving  man,  watching  his  fire  in  the 
years  gone  by,  and  ever  musing  as  it  burned. 
He  remembered  with  what  tenderness,  with 
what  love  and  sympathy  for  mankind,  and 
what  pity  for  human  guilt  and  woe,  he  had 
first  begun  to  contemplate  those  ideas  which 
afterwards  became  the  inspiration  of  his  life; 
with  what  reverence  he  had  then  looked  into 
the  heart  of  man,  viewing  it  as  a  temple 
originally  divine,  and,  however  desecrated, 
still  to  be  held  sacred  by  a  brother;  with 
what  awful  fear  he  had  deprecated  the  suc 
cess  of  his  pursuit,  and  prayed  that  the  Un 
pardonable  Sin  might  never  be  revealed  to 
him.  Then  ensued  that  vast  intellectual 
development,  which,  in  its  progress,  dis 
turbed  the  counterpoise  between  his  mind 
and  heart.  The  Idea  that  possessed  his  life 
had  operated  as  a  means  of  education;  it  had 
gone  on  cultivating  his  powers  to  the  highest 
point  of  which  they  were  susceptible;  it  had 
raised  him  from  the  level  of  an  unlettered 
laborer  to  stand  on  a  star-lit  eminence, 
whither  the  philosophers  of  the  earth,  laden 

77 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

with  the  lore  of  universities,  might  vainly 
strive  to  clamber  after  him.  So  much  for  the 
intellect!  But  where  was  the  heart?  That, 
indeed,  had  withered, — had  contracted, — had 
hardened, — had  perished!  It  had  ceased  to 
partake  of  the  universal  throb.  He  had  lost 
his  hold  of  the  magnetic  chain  of  humanity. 
He  was  no  longer  a  brother-man,  opening  the 
chambers  of  the  dungeons  of  our  common 
nature  by  the  key  of  holy  sympathy,  which 
gave  him  a  right  to  share  in  all  its  secrets; 
he  was  now  a  cold  observer,  looking  on  man 
kind  as  the  subject  of  his  experiment,  and,  at 
length,  converting  man  and  woman  to  be  his 
puppets,  and  pulling  the  wires  that  moved 
them  to  such  degrees  of  crime  as  were  de 
manded  for  his  study. 

Thus  Ethan  Brand  became  a  fiend.  He  be 
gan  to  be  so  from  the  moment  that  his  moral 
nature  had  ceased  to  keep  the  pace  of  im 
provement  with,  his  intellect.  And  now,  as 
his  highest  effort  and  inevitable  develop 
ment, — as  the  bright  and  gorgeous  flower, 
and  rich,  delicious  fruit  of  his  life's  labor, — 
he  had  produced  the  Unpardonable  Sin! 

"  What  more  have  I  to  seek?  what  more  to 
achieve? "  said  Ethan  Brand  to  himself. 
"  My  task  is  done,  and  well  done!  ' 

Starting  from  the  log  with  a  certain  alac 
rity  in  his  gait  and  ascending  the  hillock  of 
earth  that  was  raised  against  the  stone  cir 
cumference  of  the  lime-kiln,  he  thus  reached 

78 


Ethan  Brand 

the  top  of  the  structure.  It  was  a  space  of 
perhaps  ten  feet  across,  from  edge  to  edge, 
presenting  a  view  of  the  upper  surface  of  the 
immense  mass  of  broken  marble  with  which 
the  kiln  was  heaped.  All  these  innumerable 
blocks  and  fragments  of  marble  were  red-hot 
and  vividly  on  fire,  sending  up  great  spouts 
of  blue  flame,  which  quivered  aloft  and 
danced  madly,  as  within  a  magic  circle,  and 
sank  and  rose  again,  with  continual  and  mul 
titudinous  activity.  As  the  lonely  man  bent 
forward  over  this  terrible  body  of  fire,  the 
blasting  heat  smote  up  against  his  person 
with  a  breath  that,  it  might  be  supposed, 
would  have  scorched  and  shrivelled  him  up 
in  a  moment. 

Ethan  Brand  stood  erect,  and  raised  his 
arms  on  high.  The  blue  flames  played  upon 
his  face,  and  imparted  the  wild  and  ghastly 
light  which  alone  could  have  suited  its  ex 
pression;  it  was  that  of  a  fiend  on  the  verge 
of  plunging  into  his  gulf  of  intensest  torment. 

"  0  Mother  Earth,"  cried  he,  "  who  art  no 
more  my  Mother,  and  into  whose  bosom  this 
frame  shall  never  be  resolved!  O  mankind, 
whose  brotherhood  I  have  cast  off,  and 
trampled  thy  great  heart  beneath  my  feet! 
O  stars  of  heaven,  that  shone  on  me  of  old, 
as  if  to  light  me  onward  and  upward! — fare 
well  all,  and  forever.  Come,  deadly  element 
of  Fire, — henceforth  my  familiar  frame! 
Embrace  me,  as  I  do  thee!  " 

79 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

That  night  the  sound  of  a  fearful  peal  of 
laughter  rolled  heavily  through  the  sleep  of 
the  lime-burner  and  his  little  son;  dim 
shapes  of  horror  and  anguish  haunted  their 
dreams,  and  seemed  still  present  in  the  rude 
hovel,  when  they  opened  their  eyes  to  the 
daylight. 

"Up,  boy,  up!"  cried  the  lime-burner, 
staring  about  him.  "  Thank  Heaven,  the 
night  is  gone,  at  last;  and  rather  than  pass 
such  another,  I  would  watch  my  lime-kiln, 
wide  awake,  for  a  twelvemonth.  This  Ethan 
Brand,  with  his  humbug  of  an  Unpardonable 
Sin,  has  done  me  no  such  mighty  favor,  in 
taking  my  place!  ' 

He  issued  from  the  hut,  followed  by  little 
Joe,  who  kept  fast  hold  of  his  father's  hand. 
The  early  sunshine  was  already  pouring  its 
gold  upon  the  mountain-tops;  and  though 
the  valleys  were  still  in  shadow,  they  smiled 
cheerfully  in  the  promise  of  the  bright  day 
that  was  hastening  onward.  The  village, 
completely  shut  in  by  hills,  which  swelled 
away  gently  about  it,  looked  as  if  it  had 
rested  peacefully  in  the  hollow  of  the  great 
hand  of  Providence.  Every  dwelling  was 
distinctly  visible;  the  little  spires  of  the  two 
churches  pointed  upwards,  and  caught  a  fore- 
glimmering  of  brightness  from  the  sun-gilt 
skies  upon  their  gilded  weathercocks.  The 
tavern  was  astir,  and  the  figure  of  the  old, 
smoke-dried  stage-agent,  cigar  in  mouth,  was 

80 


Ethan  Brand 

seen  beneath  the  stoop.  Old  Graylock  was 
glorified  with  a  golden  cloud  upon  his  head. 
Scattered  likewise  over  the  breasts  of  the 
surrounding  mountains,  there  were  heaps  of 
hoary  mist,  in  fantastic  shapes,  some  of  them 
far  down  into  the  valley,  others  high  up  to 
wards  the  summits,  and  still  others,  of  the 
same  family  of  mist  or  cloud,  hovering  in  the 
gold  radiance  of  the  upper  atmosphere.  Step 
ping  from  one  to  another  of  the  clouds  that 
rested  on  the  hills,  and  thence  to  the  loftier 
brotherhood  that  sailed  in  air,  it  seemed  al 
most  as  if  a  mortal  man  might  thus  ascend 
into  the  heavenly  regions.  Earth  was  so 
mingled  with  sky  that  it  was  a  day-dream  to 
look  at  it. 

To  supply  that  charm  of  the  familiar  and 
homely,  which  Nature  so  readily  adopts  into 
a  scene  like  this,  the  stage-coach  was  rattling 
down  the  mountain-road,  and  the  driver 
sounded  his  horn,  while  echo  caught  up  the 
notes,  and  intertwined  them  into  a  rich  and 
varied  and  elaborate  harmony,  of  which  the 
original  performer  could  lay  claim  to  little 
share.  The  great  hills  played  a  concert 
among  themselves,  each  contributing  a  strain 
of  airy  sweetness. 

Little  Joe's  face  brightened  at  once. 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  he,  skipping  cheerily 
to  and  fro,  "  that  strange  man  is  gone,  and 
the  sky  and  the  mountains  all  seem  glad  of 
it!  " 

81 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  lime-burner,  with  an 
oath,  "  but  he  has  let  the  fire  go  down,  and 
no  thanks  to  him  if  five  hundred  bushels  of 
lime  are  not  spoiled.  If  I  catch  the  fellow 
hereabouts  again,  I  shall  feel  like  tossing 
him  into  the  furnace!  " 

With  his  long  pole  in  his  hand,  he  ascended 
to  the  top  of  the  kiln.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  he  called  to  his  son. 

"  Come  up  here,  Joe!  "  said  he. 

So  little  Joe  ran  up  the  hillock,  and  stood 
by  his  father's  side.  The  marble  was  all 
burnt  into  perfect,  snow-white  lime.  But  on 
its  surface,  in  the  midst  of  the  circle, — snow- 
white  too,  and  thoroughly  converted  into 
lime, — lay  a  human  skeleton,  in  the  attitude 
of  a  person  who,  after  long  toil,  lies  down  to 
long  repose.  Within  the  ribs — strange  to  say 
— was  the  shape  of  a  human  heart. 

"Was  the  fellow's  heart  made  of  marble?  " 
cried  Bartram,  in  some  perplexity  at  this 
phenomenon.  "  At  any  rate,  it  is  burnt  into 
what  looks  like  special  good  lime;  and,  tak 
ing  all  the  bones  together,  my  kiln  is  half  a 
bushel  the  richer  for  him." 

So  saying,  the  rude  lime-burner  lifted  his 
pole,  and,  letting  it  fall  upon  the  skeleton,  the 
relics  of  Ethan  Brand  were  crumbled  into 
fragments. 


Wakefield 


Wakefield 


IN  some  old  magazine  or  newspaper,  I 
recollect  a  story,  told  as  truth,  of  a  man — let 
us  call  him  Wakefield — who  absented  himself 
for  a  long  time  from  his  wife.  The  fact  thus 
abstractedly  stated  is  not  very  uncommon, 
nor — without  a  proper  distinction  of  circum 
stances — to  be  condemned  either  as  naughty 
or  nonsensical.  Howbeit,  tnis,  though  far 
from  the  most  aggravated,  is  perhaps  the 
strangest  instance  on  record  of  marital  delin 
quency;  and,  moreover,  as  remarkable  a 
freak  as  may  be  found  in  the  whole  list  of 
human  oddities.  The  wedded  couple  lived  in 
London.  The  man,  under  pretence  of  going 
a  journey,  took  lodgings  in  the  next  street  to 
his  own  house,  and  there,  unheard  of  by  his 
wife  or  friends,  and  without  the  shadow  of 
a  reason  for  such  self-banishment,  dwelt  up 
wards  of  twenty  years.  During  that  period, 
he  beheld  his  home  every  day,  and  frequently 
the  forlorn  Mrs.  Wakefield.  And  after  so 
great  a  gap  in  his  matrimonial  felicity — 
when  his  death  was  reckoned  certain,  his 
estate  settled,  his  name  dismissed  from 
memory,  and  his  wife,  long,  long  ago  re- 

85 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

signed  to  her  autumnal  widowhood — he  en 
tered  the  door  one  evening,  quietly,  as  from 
a  day's  absence,  and  became  a  loving  spouse 
till  death. 

This  outline  is  all  that  I  remember.  But 
the  incident,  though  of  the  purest  originality, 
unexampled,  and  probably  never  to  be  re 
peated,  is  one,  I  think,  which  appeals  to  the 
generous  sympathies  of  mankind.  We  know, 
each  for  himself,  that  none  of  us  would  per 
petrate  such  a  folly,  yet  feel  as  if  some  other 
might.  To  my  own  contemplations,  at  least, 
it  has  often  recurred,  always  exciting  won 
der,  but  with  a  sense  that  the  story  must  be 
true,  and  a  conception  of  its  hero's  character. 
Whenever  any  subject  so  forcibly  affects  the 
mind,  time  is  well  spent  in  thinking  of  it.  If 
the  reader  choose,  let  him  do  his  own  medi 
tation;  or  if  he  prefer  to  ramble  with  me 
through  the  twenty  years  of  Wakefield's 
vagary,  I  bid  him  welcome;  trusting  that 
there  will  be  a  pervading  spirit  and  a  moral, 
even  should  we  fail  to  find  them,  done  up 
neatly,  and  condensed  into  the  final  sentence. 
Thought  has  always  its  efficacy,  and  every 
striking  incident  its  moral. 

What  sort  of  a  man  was  Wakefield?  We 
are  free  to  shape  out  our  own  idea,  and  call  it 
by  his  name.  He  was  now  in  the  meridian  of 
life;  his  matrimonial  affections,  never  vio 
lent,  were  sobered  into  a  calm,  habitual  sen 
timent;  of  all  husbands,  he  was  likely  to  be 

86 


Wakefield 

the  most  constant,  because  a  certain  slug 
gishness  would  keep  his  heart  at  rest,  wher 
ever  it  might  be  placed.  He  was  intellectual, 
but  not  actively  so;  his  mind  occupied  itself 
in  long  and  lazy  musings,  that  tended  to  no 
purpose,  or  had  not  vigor  to  attain  it;  his 
thoughts  were  seldom  so  energetic  as  to  seize 
hold  of  words.  Imagination,  in  the  proper 
meaning  of  the  term,  made  no  part  of  Wake- 
field's  gifts.  With  a  cold  but  not  depraved 
nor  wandering  heart,  and  a  mind  never  fever 
ish  with  riotous  thoughts,  nor  perplexed  with 
originality,  who  could  have  anticipated  that 
our  friend  would  entitle  himself  to  a  fore 
most  place  among  the  doers  of  eccentric 
deeds?  Had  his  acquaintances  been  asked, 
who  was  the  man  in  London,  the  surest  to 
perform  nothing  to-day  which  should  be  re 
membered  on  the  morrow,  they  would  have 
thought  of  Wakefield.  Only  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  might  have  hesitated.  She,  without 
having  analyzed  his  character,  was  partly 
aware  of  a  quiet  selfishness,  that  had  rusted 
into  his  inactive  mind, — of  a  peculiar  sort  of 
vanity,  the  most  uneasy  attribute  about  him, 
— of  a  disposition  to  craft,  which  had  seldom 
produced  more  positive  effects  than  the  keep 
ing  of  petty  secrets,  hardly  worth  revealing, 
— and,  lastly,  of  what  she  called  a  little 
strangeness,  sometimes,  in  the  good  man. 
This  latter  quality  is  indefinable,  and  perhaps 
non-existent. 

87 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Let  us  now  imagine  Wakefield  bidding 
adieu  to  his  wife.  It  is  the  dusk  of  an  Octo 
ber  evening.  His  equipment  is  a  drab  great 
coat,  a  hat  covered  with  an  oil-cloth,  top- 
boots,  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a  small 
portmanteau  in  the  other.  He  has  informed 
Mrs.  Wakefield  that  he  is  to  take  the  night 
coach  into  the  country.  She  would  fain  in 
quire  the  length  of  his  journey,  its  object, 
and  the  probable  time  of  his  return;  but,  in 
dulgent  to  his  harmless  love  of  mystery,  in 
terrogates  him  only  by  a  look.  He  tells  her 
not  to  expect  him  positively  by  the  return 
coach,  nor  to  be  alarmed  should  he  tarry 
three  or  four  days;  but,  at  all  events,  to  look 
for  him  at  supper  on  Friday  evening.  Wake- 
field  himself,  be  it  considered,  has  no  sus 
picion  of  what  is  before  him.  He  holds  out 
his  hand;  she  gives  her  own,  and  meets  his 
parting  kiss,  in  the  matter-of-course  way  of 
a  ten  years'  matrimony;  and  forth  goes  the 
middle-aged  Mr.  Wakefield,  almost  resolved 
to  perplex  his  good  lady  by  a  whole  week's 
absence.  After  the  door  has  closed  behind 
him,  she  perceives  it  thrust  partly  open,  and 
a  vision  of  her  husband's  face,  through  the 
aperture,  smiling  on  her,  and  gone  in  a  mo 
ment.  For  the  time,  this  little  incident  is 
dismissed  without  a  thought.  But,  long 
afterwards,  when  she  has  been  more  years  a 
widow  than  a  wife,  that  smile  recurs,  and 
flickers  across  all  her  reminiscences  of  Wake- 

88 


Wakefield 

field's  visage.  In  her  many  musings,  she 
surrounds  the  original  smile  with  a  multi 
tude  of  fantasies,  which  make  it  strange  and 
awful;  as,  for  instance,  if  she  imagines  him 
in  a  coffin,  that  parting  look  is  frozen  on  his 
pale  features;  or,  if  she  dreams  of  him  in 
heaven,  still  his  blessed  spirit  wears  a  quiet 
and  crafty  smile.  Yet,  for  its  sake,  when  all 
others  have  given  him  up  for  dead,  she  some 
times  doubts  whether  she  is  a  widow. 

But  our  business  is  with  the  husband.  We 
must  hurry  after  him,  along  the  street,  ere 
he  lose  his  individuality,  and  melt  into  the 
great  mass  of  London  life.  It  would  be  vain 
searching  for  him  there.  Let  us  follow  close 
at  his  heels,  therefore,  until,  after  several 
superfluous  turns  and  doublings,  we  find  him 
comfortably  established  by  the  fireside  of  a 
small  apartment,  previously  bespoken.  He 
te  in  the  next  street  to  his  own,  and  at  his 
journey's  end.  He  can  scarcely  trust  his 
good  fortune  in  having  got  thither  unper- 
ceived, — recollecting  that,  at  one  time,  he  was 
delayed  by  the  throng,  in  the  very  focus  of  a 
lighted  lantern;  and,  again,  there  were  foot 
steps,  that  seemed  to  tread  behind  his  own, 
distinct  from  the  multitudinous  tramp  around 
him;  and,  anon,  he  heard  a  voice  shouting- 
afar,  and  fancied  that  it  called  his  name. 
Doubtless,  a  dozen  busybodies  had  been 
watching  him,  and  told  his  wife  the  whole 
affair.  Poor  Wakefield!  Little  knowest  thou 

89 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

thine  own  insignificance  in  this  great  world! 
No  mortal  eye  but  mine  has  traced  thee.  Go 
quietly  to  thy  bed,  foolish  man;  and,  on  the 
morrow,  if  thou  wilt  be  wise,  get  thee  home 
to  good  Mrs.  Wakefield,  and  tell  her  the 
truth.  Remove  not  thyself,  even  for  a  little 
week,  from  thy  place  in  her  chaste  bosom. 
Were  she,  for  a  single  moment  to  deem  thee 
dead,  or  lost,  or  lastingly  divided  from  her, 
thou  wouldst  be  wofully  conscious  of  a 
change  in  thy  true  wife,  forever  after.  It  is 
perilous  to  make  a  chasm  in  human  affec 
tions;  not  that  they  gape  so  long  and  wide, 
but  so  quickly  close  again! 

Almost  repenting  of  his  frolic,  or  whatever 
it  may  be  termed,  Wakefield  lies  down  be 
times,  and  starting  from  his  first  nap,  spreads 
forth  his  arms  into  the  wide  and  solitary 
waste  of  the  unaccustomed  bed.  "  No," — 
thinks  he,  gathering  the  bedclothes  about 
him, — "  I  will  not  sleep  alone  another  night." 

In  the  morning,  he  rises  earlier  than  usual, 
and  sets  himself  to  consider  what  he  really 
means  to  do.  Such  are  his  loose  and  ram 
bling  modes  of  thought,  that  he  has  taken  this 
very  singular  step,  with  the  consciousness  of 
a  purpose,  indeed,  but  without  being  able  to 
define  it  sufficiently  for  his  own  contempla 
tion.  The  vagueness  of  the  project,  and  the 
convulsive  effort  with  which  he  plunges  into 
the  execution  of  it,  are  equally  characteristic 
of  a  feeble-minded  man.  Wakefield  sifts  his 

90 


Wakefield 

ideas,  however,  as  minutely  as  he  may,  and 
finds  himself  curious  to  know  the  progress  of 
matters  at  home, — how  his  exemplary  wife 
will  endure  her  widowhood  of  a  week;  and, 
briefly,  how  the  little  sphere  of  creatures  and 
circumstances,  in  which  he  was  a  central  ob 
ject,  will  be  affected  by  his  removal.  A  mor 
bid  vanity,  therefore,  lies  nearest  the  bottom 
of  the  affair.  But,  how  is  he  to  attain  his 
ends?  Not,  certainly,  by  keeping  close  in 
this  comfortable  lodging,  where,  though  he 
slept  and  awoke  in  the  next  street  to  his 
home,  he  is  as  effectually  abroad,  as  if  the 
stage-coach  had  been  whirling  him  away  all 
night.  Yet,  should  he  reappear,  the  whole 
project  is  knocked  in  the  head.  His  poor 
brains  being  hopelessly  puzzled  with  this 
dilemma,  he  at  length  ventures  out,  partly 
resolving  to  cross  the  head  of  the  street,  and 
send  one  hasty  glance  towards  his  forsaken 
domicile.  Habit — for  he  is  a  man  of  habits 
— takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  guides  him, 
wholly  unaware,  to  his  own  door,  where,  just 
at  the  critical  moment,  he  is  aroused  by  the 
scraping  of  his  foot  upon  the  step.  Wake- 
field!  whither  are  you  going? 

At  that  instant,  his  fate  was  turning  on  the 
pivot.  Little  dreaming  of  the  doom  to  which 
his  first  backward  step  devotes  him,  he  hur 
ries  away,  breathless  with  agitation  hitherto 
unfelt,  and  hardly  dares  turn  his  head,  at  the 
distant  corner.  Can  it  be  that  nobody  caught 

91 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

sight  of  him?  Will  not  the  whole  household 
— the  decent  Mrs.  Wakefield,  the  smart  maid 
servant,  and  the  dirty  little  footboy — raise  a 
hue  and  cry,  through  London  streets,  in  pur 
suit  of  their  fugitive  lord  and  master?  Won 
derful  escape!  He  gathers  courage  to  pause 
and  look  homeward,  but  is  perplexed  with  a 
sense  of  change  about  the  familiar  edifice, 
such  as  affects  us  all,  when  after  a  separa 
tion  of  months  or  years,  we  again  see  some 
hill  or  lake,  or  work  of  art,  with  which  we 
were  friends  of  old.  In  ordinary  cases,  this 
indescribable  impression  is  caused  by  the 
•comparison  and  contrast  between  our  imper 
fect  reminiscences  and  the  reality.  In  Wake- 
field,  the  magic  of  a  single  night  has  wrought 
a  similar  transformation,  because,  in  that 
brief  period,  a  great  moral  change  has  been 
effected.  But  this  is  a  secret  from  himself. 
Before  leaving  the  spot,  he  catches  a  far  and 
momentary  glimpse  of  his  wife,  passing 
athwart  the  front  window,  with  her  face 
turned  towards  the  head  of  the  street.  The 
crafty  nincompoop  takes  to  his  heels,  scared 
with  the  idea,  that,  among  a  thousand  such 
atoms  of  mortality,  her  eye  must  have  de 
tected  him.  Right  glad  is  his  heart,  though 
his  brain  be  somewhat  dizzy,  when  he  finds 
himself  by  the  coal-fire  of  his  lodgings. 

So  much  for  the  commencement  of  this  long 
whim-wham.  After  the  initial  conception, 
and  the  stirring  up  of  the  man's  sluggish 

92 


Wakefield 

temperament  to  put  it  in  practice,  the  whole 
matter  evolves  itself  in  a  natural  train.  We 
may  suppose  him,  as  the  result  of  deep  de 
liberation,  buying  a  new  wig,  of  reddish  hair, 
and  selecting  sundry  garments,  in  a  fashion 
unlike  his  customary  suit  of  brown,  from  a 
Jew's  old-clothes  bag.  It  is  accomplished. 
Wakefield  is  another  man.  The  new  system 
being  now  established,  a  retrograde  move 
ment  to  the  old  would  be  almost  as  difficult 
as  the  step  that  placed  him  in  his  unparal 
leled  position.  Furthermore,  he  is  rendered 
obstinate  by  a  sulkiness,  occasionally  inci 
dent  to  his  temper,  and  brought  on,  at  pres 
ent,  by  the  inadequate  sensation  which  he 
conceives  to  have  been  produced  in  the 
bosom  of  Mrs.  Wakefield.  He  will  not  go 
back  until  she  be  frightened  half  to  death. 
Well;  twice  or  thrice  has  she  passed  before 
his  sight,  each  time  with  a  heavier  step,  a 
paler  cheek,  and  more  anxious  brow;  and  in 
the  third  week  of  his  non-appearance,  he 
detects  a  portent  of  evil  entering  the  house, 
in  the  guise  of  an  apothecary.  Next  day,  the 
knocker  is  muffled.  Towards  nightfall  comes 
the  chariot  of  a  physician,  and  deposits  its 
big-wigged  and  solemn  burden  at  Wakefield's 
door,  whence,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
visit,  he  emerges,  perchance  the  herald  of  a 
funeral.  Dear  woman!  Will  she  die?  By 
this  time,  Wakefield  is  excited  to  something 
like  energy  of  feeling,  but  still  lingers  away 

93 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

from  his  wife's  bedside,  pleading  with  his 
conscience,  that  she  must  not  be  disturbed 
at  such  a  juncture.  If  aught  else  restrains 
him,  he  does  not  know  it.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  weeks,  she  gradually  recovers;  the  crisis 
is  over;  her  heart  is  sad,  perhaps,  but  quiet; 
and,  let  him  return  soon  or  late,  it  will  never 
be  feverish  for  him  again.  Such  ideas  glim 
mer  through  the  mist  of  Wakefield's  mind, 
and  render  him  indistinctly  conscious  that  an 
almost  impassable  gulf  divides  his  hired 
apartment  from  his  former  home.  "  It  is  but 
in  the  next  street!  "  he  sometimes  says. 
Fool!  it  is  in  another  world.  Hitherto,  he 
has  put  off  his  return  from  one  particular  day 
to  another;  henceforward,  he  leaves  the  pre 
cise  time  undetermined.  Not  to-morrow, — 
probably  next  week, — pretty  soon.  Poor 
man!  The  dead  have  nearly  as  much  chance 
of  revisiting  their  earthly  homes,  as  the  self- 
banished  Wakefield. 

Would  that  I  had  a  folio  to  write,  instead 
of  an  article  of  a  dozen  pages!  Then  might 
I  exemplify  how  an  influence,  beyond  our 
control,  lays  its  strong  hand  on  every  deed 
which  we  do,  and  weaves  its  consequences 
into  an  iron  tissue  of  necessity.  Wakefield 
is  spellbound.  We  must  leave  him,  for  ten 
years  or  so,  to  haunt  around  his  house,  with 
out  once  crossing  the  threshold,  and  to  be 
faithful  to  his  wife,  with  all  the  affection  of 
which  his  heart  is  capable,  while  he  is  slowly 

94 


Wakefield 

fading  out  of  hers.  Long  since,  it  must  be 
remarked,  he  has  lost  the  perception  of  sin 
gularity  in  his  conduct. 

Now  for  a  scene!  Amid  the  throng  of  a 
London  street,  we  distinguish  a  man,  now 
waxing  elderly,  with  few  characteristics  to 
attract  careless  observers,  yet  bearing,  in  his 
whole  aspect,  the  handwriting  of  no  common 
fate,  for  such  as  have  the  skill  to  read  it.  He 
is  meagre;  his  low  and  narrow  forehead  is 
deeply  wrinkled;  his  eyes,  small  and  lustre 
less,  sometimes  wander  apprehensively  about 
him,  but  oftener  seem  to  look  inward.  He 
bends  his  head,  and  moves  with  an  indescrib 
able  obliquity  of  gait,  as  if  unwilling  to  dis 
play  his  full  front  to  the  world.  Watch  him, 
long  enough  to  see  what  we  have  described, 
and  you  will  allow,  that  circumstances — 
which  often  produce  remarkable  men  from 
nature's  ordinary  handiwork — have  produced 
one  such  here.  Next,  leaving  him  to  sidle 
along  the  footwalk,  cast  your  eyes  in  the  op 
posite  direction,  where  a  portly  female,  con 
siderably  in  the  wane  of  life,  with  a  prayer- 
book  in  her  hand,  is  proceeding  to  yonder 
church.  She  has  the  placid  mien  of  settled 
widowhood.  Her  regrets  have  either  died 
away,  or  have  become  so  essential  to  her 
heart,  that  they  would  be  poorly  exchanged 
for  joy.  Just  as  the  lean  man  and  well-con 
ditioned  woman  are  passing,  a  slight  obstruc 
tion  occurs,  and  brings  these  two  figures 

95 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

directly  in  contact.  Their  hands  touch;  the 
pressure  of  the  crowd  forces  her  bosom 
against  his  shoulder;  they  stand,  face  to  face, 
staring  into  each  other's  eyes.  After  a  ten 
years'  separation,  thus  Wakefield  meets  his 
wife! 

The  throng  eddies  away,  and  carries  them 
asunder.  The  sober  widow,  resuming  her 
former  pace,  proceeds  to  church,  but  pauses 
in  the  portal,  and  throws  a  perplexed  glance 
along  the  street.  She  passes  in,  however, 
opening  her  prayer-book  as  she  goes.  And  the 
man!  with  so  wild  a  face,  that  busy  and  selfish 
London  stands  to  gaze  after  him,  he  hurries 
to  his  lodgings,  bolts  the  door,  and  throws 
himself  upon  the  bed.  The  latent  feelings  of 
years  break  out;  his  feeble  mind  acquires  a 
brief  energy  from  their  strength;  all  the  mis 
erable  strangeness  of  his  life  is  revealed  to 
him  at  a  glance:  and  he  cries  out,  passionate 
ly,  "Wakefield!  Wakefield!  you  are  mad!  " 

Perhaps  he  was  so.  The  singularity  of  his 
situation  must  have  so  moulded  him  to  him 
self,  that,  considered  in  regard  to  his  fellow- 
creatures  and  the  business  of  life,  he  could 
not  be  said  to  possess  his  right  mind.  He 
had  contrived,  or  rather  he  had  happened,  to 
dissever  himself  from  the  world, — to  vanish, 
— to  give  up  his  place  and  privileges  with 
living  men,  without  being  admitted  among 
the  dead.  The  life  of  a  hermit  is  nowise 
parallel  to  his.  He  was  in  the  bustle  of  the 


Wakefield 

city,  as  of  old;  but  the  crowd  swept  by,  and 
saw  him  not;  he  was,  we  may  figuratively 
say,  always  beside  his  wife,  and  at  his  hearth, 
yet  must  never  feel  the  warmth  of  the  one, 
nor  the  affection  of  the  other.  It  was  Wake- 
fieid's  unprecedented  fate,  to  retain  his  orig 
inal  share  of  human  sympathies,  and  to  be 
till  involved  in  human  interests,  while  he 
nad  lost  his  reciprocal  influence  on  them.  It 
would  be  a  most  curious  speculation,  to  trace 
out  the  effect  of  such  circumstances  on  his 
heart  and  intellect,  separately,  and  in  unison. 
Yet,  changed  as  he  was,  he  would  seldom  be 
conscious  of  it,  but  deem  himself  the  same 
man  -as  ever;  glimpses  of  the  truth,  indeed, 
would  come,  but  only  for  the  moment;  and 
still  he  would  keep  saying,  "  I  shall  soon  go 
back!  "  nor  reflect  that  he  had  been  saying 
so  for  twenty  years. 

I  conceive,  also,  that  these  twenty  years 
would  appear,  in  the  retrospect,  scarcely 
longer  than  the  week  to  which  Wakefield  had 
at  first  limited  his  absence.  He  would  look 
on  the  affair  as  no  more  than  an  interlude  in 
the  main  business  of  his  life.  When,  after  a 
little  while  more,  he  should  deem  it  time  to 
re-enter  his  parlor,  his  wife  would  clap  her 
hands  for  joy,  on  beholding  the  middle-aged 
Mr.  Wakefield.  Alas,  what  a  mistake!  Would 
Time  but  await  the  close  of  our  favorite  fol 
lies,  we  should  be  young  men,  all  of  us,  and 
till  Doomsday. 

97 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

One  evening,  in  the  twentieth  year  since  he 
vanished,  Wakefield  is  taking  his  customary 
walk  towards  the  dwelling  which  he  still 
calls  his  own.  It  is  a  gusty  night  of  autumn, 
with  frequent  showers,  that  patter  down 
upon  the  pavement,  and  are  gone,  before  a 
man  can  put  up  his  umbrella.  Pausing  near 
the  house,  Wakefield  discerns,  through  the 
parlor  windows  of  the  second  floor,  the  red 
glow,  and  the  glimmer  and  fitful  flash  of  a 
comfortable  fire.  On  the  ceiling  appears  a 
grotesque  shadow  of  good  Mrs.  Wakefield. 
The  cap,  the  nose  and  chin,  and  the  broad 
waist  form  an  admirable  caricature,  which 
dances,  moreover,  with  the  up-flickering-  and 
down-sinking  blaze,  almost  too  merrily  for 
the  shade  of  an  elderly  widow.  At  this  in 
stant,  a  shower  chances  to  fall,  and  is  driven, 
by  the  unmannerly  gust,  full  into  Wakefield's 
face  and  bosom.  He  is  quite  penetrated  with 
its  autumnal  chill.  Shall  he  stand,  wet  and 
shivering  here,  when  his  own  hearth  has  a 
good  fire  to  warm  him,  and  his  own  wife  will 
run  to  fetch  the  gray  coat  and  small-clothes, 
which  doubtless  she  has  kept  carefully  in  the 
closet  of  their  bedchamber?  No!  Wakefield 
is  no  such  fool.  He  ascends  the  steps,— 
heavily! — for  twenty  years  have  stiffened  his 
legs,  since  he  came  down, — but  he  knows  it 
not.  Stay,  Wakefield!  Would  you  go  to  the 
sole  home  that  is  left  you?  Then  step  into 
your  grave!  The  door  opens.  As  he  passes 


Wakefield 

in,  we  have  a  parting  glimpse  of  his  visage, 
and  recognize  the  crafty  smile,  which  was 
the  precursor  of  the  little  joke  that  he  has 
ever  since  been  playing  off  at  his  wife's  ex 
pense.  How  unmercifully  has  he  quizzed  the 
poor  woman!  Well,  a  good  night's  rest  to 
Wakefield! 

This  happy  event — supposing  it  to  be  such 
— could  only  have  occurred  at  an  unpremedi 
tated  moment.  We  will  not  follow  our  friend 
across  the  threshold.  He  has  left  us  much 
food  for  thought,  a  portion  of  which  shall 
lend  its  wisdom  to  a  moral,  and  be  shaped 
into  a  figure.  Amid  the  seeming  confusion 
of  our  mysterious  world,  individuals  are  so 
nicely  adjusted  to  a  system,  and  systems  to 
one  another,  and  to  a  whole,  that,  by  step 
ping  aside  for  a  moment,  a  man  exposes  him 
self  to  a  fearful  risk  of  losing  his  place  for 
ever.  Like  Wakefield,  he  may  become,  as  it 
were,  the  Outcast  of  the  Universe. 


Browne's  Wooden   Image 


101 


Drowne's   Wooden   Image 

ONE  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old 
tx  nes  of  the  town  of  Boston,  a  young  carver 
in  wood,  weii  known  by  the  name  of  Browne, 
stood  contemplating  a  large  oaken  log,  which 
it  was  his  purpose  to  convert  into  the  figure 
head  of  a  vessel.  And  while  he  discussed 
within  his  own  mind  what  sort  of  shape  or 
similitude  it  were  well  to  bestow  upon  this 
excellent  piece  of  timber,  there  came  into 
Drowne's  workshop  a  certain  Captain  Hunne- 
well,  owner  and  commander  of  the  good  brig 
called  the  Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned 
from  her  first  voyage  to  Fayal. 

"  Ah!  that  will  do,  Browne,  that  will  do!  " 
cried  the  jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with 
his  ratan.  "  I  bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak 
for  the  figure-head  of  the  Cynosure.  She  has 
shown  herself  the  sweetest  craft  that  ever 
floated,  and  I  mean  to  decorate  her  prow  with 
the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of  man 
can  cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Browne,  you  are 
the  fellow  to  execute  it." 

"  You  give  me  more  credit  than  I  deserve, 
Captain  Hunnewell,"  said  the  carver,  mod- 

103 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

estly,  yet  as  one  conscious  of  eminence  in 
his  art.  "  But,  for  the  sake  of  the  good  brig, 
I  stand  ready  to  do  my  best.  And  which  of 
these  designs  do  you  prefer?  Here," — point 
ing  to  a  staring,  half-length  figure,  in  a  white 
wig  and  scarlet  coat, — "  here  is  an  excellent 
model,  the  likeness  of  our  gracious  king. 
Here  is  the  valiant  Admiral  Vernon.  Or,  if 
you  prefer  a  female  figure,  what  say  you  to 
Britannia  with  the  trident?  " 

"  All  very  fine,  Browne;  all  very  fine,"  an 
swered  the  mariner.  "  But  as  nothing  like 
the  brig  ever  swam  the  ocean,  so  I  am  deter 
mined  she  shall  have  such  a  figure-head  as 
old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his  life.  And  what 
is  more,  as  there  is  a  secret. in  the  matter, 
you  must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray  it." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Browne,  marvelling, 
however,  what  possible  mystery  there  could 
be  in  reference  to  an  affair  so  open,  of  neces 
sity,  to  the  inspection  of  all  the  world  as  the 
figure-head  of  a  vessel.  "  You  may  depend, 
Captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the  nature 
of  the  case  will  permit." 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Browne  by 
the  button,  and  communicated  his  wishes  in 
so  low  a  tone  that  it  would  be  unmannerly  to 
repeat  what  was  evidently  intended  for  the 
carver's  private  ear.  We  shall,  therefore, 
take  the  opportunity  to  give  the  reader  a  few 
desirable  particulars  about  Browne  himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to 

104 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

have  attempted— in  a  very  humble  line,  it  is 
true — that  art  in  which  we  can  now  reckon 
so  many  names  already  distinguished,  or  ris 
ing  to  distinction.  From  his  earliest  boy 
hood  he  had  exhibited  a  knack, — for  it  would 
be  too  proud  a  word  to  call  it  genius, — a 
knack,  therefore,  for  the  imitation  of  the 
human  figure  in  whatever  material  came 
most  readily  to  hand.  The  snows  of  a  New 
England  winter  had  often  supplied  him  with 
a  species  of  marble  as  dazzlingly  white,  at 
least,  as  the  Parian  or  the  Carrara,  and  if  less 
durable,  yet  sufficiently  so  to  correspond  with 
any  claims  to  permanent  existence  possessed 
by  the  boy's  frozen  statues.  Yet  they  won 
admiration  from  maturer  judges  than  his 
schoolfellows,  and  were,  indeed,  remarkably 
clever,  though  destitute  of  the  native  warmth 
that  might  have  made  the  snow  melt  beneath 
his  hand.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  the  young 
man  adopted  pine  and  oak  as  eligible  ma 
terials  for  the  display  of  his  skill,  which  now 
began  to  bring  him  a  return  of  solid  silver 
as  well  as  the  empty  praise  that  had  been  an 

I 

apt  reward  enough  for  his  productions  of 
evanescent  snow.  He  became  noted  for  carv 
ing  ornamental  pump-heads,  and  wooden 
urns  for  gate-posts,  and  decorations,  more 
grotesque  than  fanciful,  for  mantel-pieces. 
No  apothecary  would  have  deemed  himself 
in  the  way  of  obtaining  custom,  without  set 
ting  up  a  gilded  mortar,  if  not  a  head  of 

105 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Galen  or  Hippocrates,  from  the  skilful  hand 
of  Browne. 

But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay  in 
the  manufacture  of  figure-heads  for  vessels. 
Whether  it  were  the  monarch  himself,  or 
some  famous  British  admiral  or  general,  or 
the  governor  of  the  province,  or  perchance 
the  favorite  daughter  of  the  ship-owner, 
there  the  image  stood  above  the  prow,  decked 
out  in  gorgeous  colors,  magnificently  gilded, 
and  staring  the  whole  world  out  of  counte 
nance,  as  if  from  an  innate  consciousness  of 
its  own  superiority.  These  specimens  of  na 
tive  sculpture  had  crossed  the  sea  in  all  direc 
tions,  and  been  not  ignobly  noticed  among 
the  crowded  shipping  of  the  Thames,  and 
wherever  else  the  hardy  mariners  of  New 
England  had  pushed  their  adventures.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  a  family  likeness  per 
vaded  these  respectable  progeny  of  Browne's 
skill;  that  the  benign  countenance  of  the 
king  resembled  those  of  his  subjects,  and 
that  Miss  Peggy  Hobart,  the  merchant's 
daughter,  bore  a  remarkable  similitude  to 
Britannia,  Victory,  and  other  ladies  of  the 
allegoric  sisterhood;  and,  finally,  that  they 
all  had  a  kind  of  wooden  aspect,  which  proved 
an  intimate  relationship  with  the  unshaped 
blocks  of  timber  in  the  carver's  workshop. 
But  at  least  there  was  no  inconsiderable  skill 
of  hand,  nor  a  deficiency  of  any  attribute  to 
render  them  really  works  of  art.  except  that 

106 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

deep  quality,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which 
bestows  life  upon  the  lifeless  and  warmth 
upon  the  cold,  and  which,  had  it  been  pres 
ent,  would  have  made  Drowne's  wooden 
image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  fin 
ished  his  instructions. 

"  And,  Browne,"  said  he,  impressively, 
"  you  must  lay  aside  all  other  business  and 
set  about  this  forthwith.  And  as  to  the 
price,  only  do  the  job  in  first-rate  style,  and 
you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself." 

"  Very  well,  Captain,"  answered  the  carver, 
who  looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed, 
yet  had  a  sort  of  smile  upon  his  visage;  "  de 
pend  upon  it,  I'll  do  my  utmost  to  satisfy 
you." 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about 
Long  Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock  who  were 
wont  to  show  their  love  for  the  arts  by  fre 
quent  visits  to  Drowne's  workshop,  and  ad 
miration  of  his  wooden  images,  began  to  be 
sensible  of  a  mystery  in  the  carver's  conduct. 
Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime.  Some 
times,  as  might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light 
from  the  shop-windows,  he  was  at  work  until 
a  late  hour  of  the  evening;  although  neither 
knock  nor  voice,  on  such  occasions,  could 
gain  admittance  for  a  visitor,  or  elicit  any 
word  of  response.  Nothing  remarkable, 
however,  was  observed  in  the  shop  at  those 
hours  when  it  was  thrown  open.  A  fine  piece 

107 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

of  timber,  indeed,  which  Browne  was  known 
to  have  reserved  for  some  work  of  especial 
dignity,  was  seen  to  be  gradually  assuming 
shape.  What  shape  it  was  destined  ulti 
mately  to  take  was  a  problem  to  his  friends 
and  a  point  on  which  the  carver  himself  pre 
served  a  rigid  silence.  But  day  after  day, 
though  Browne  was  seldom  noticed  in  the 
act  of  working  upon  it,  this  rude  form  began 
to  be  developed  until  it  became  evident  to 
all  observers  that  a  female  figure  was  grow 
ing  into  mimic  life.  At  each  new  visit  they 
beheld  a  larger  pile  of  wooden  chips  and  a 
nearer  approximation  to  something  beauti 
ful.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hamadryad  of  the 
oak  had  sheltered  herself  from  the  unimag 
inative  world  within  the  heart  of  her  native 
tree,  and  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  re 
move  the  strange  shapelessness  that  had 
incrusted  her,  and  reveal  the  grace  and  love 
liness  of  a  divinity.  Imperfect  as  the  design, 
the  attitude,  the  costume,  and  especially  the 
face  of  the  image  still  remained,  there  was 
already  an  effect  that  drew  the  eye  from  the 
wooden  cleverness  of  Browne's  earlier  pro 
ductions  and  fixed  it  upon  the  tantalizing 
mystery  of  this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a 
young  man  and  a  resident  of  Boston,  came 
one  day  to  visit  Browne;  for  he  had  recog 
nized  so  much  of  moderate  ability  in  the 
carver  as  to  induce  him,  in  the  dearth  of  pro- 

108 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

fessional  sympathy,  to  cultivate  his  acquaint 
ance.  On  entering  the  shop  the  artist 
glanced  at  the  inflexible  image  of  the  king, 
commander,  dame,  and  allegory  that  stood 
around,  on  the  best  of  which  might  have 
been  bestowed  the  questionable  praise  that  it 
looked  as  if  a  living  man  had  here  been 
changed  to  wood,  and  that  not  only  the  phys 
ical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  part, 
partook  of  the  stolid  transformation.  But 
in  not  a  single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the 
wood  were  imbibing  the  ethereal  essence  of 
humanity.  What  a  wide  distinction  is  here! 
and  how  far  would  the  slightest  portion  of 
the  latter  merit  have  outvalued  the  utmost 
degree  of  the  former! 

"  My  friend  Browne,"  said  Copley,  smiling 
to  himself,  but  alluding  to  the  mechanical 
and  wooden  cleverness  that  so  invariably  dis 
tinguished  the  images,  "  you  are  really  a  re 
markable  person!  I  have  seldom  met  with 
a  man  in  your  line  of  business  that  could 
do  so  much;  for  one  other  touch  might 
make  this  figure  of  General  Wolfe,  for  in 
stance,  a  breathing  and  intelligent  human 
creature." 

"  You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are 
praising  me  highly,  Mr.  Copley,"  answered 
Browne,  turning  his  back  upon  Wolfe's 
image  in  apparent  disgust.  "  But  there  has 
come  a  light  into  my  mind.  I  know,  what 
you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch  which 

109 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

you  speak  of  as  deficient  is  the  only  one  that 
would  be  truly  valuable,  and  that  without  it 
these  works  of  mine  are  no  better  than 
worthless  abortions.  There  is  the  same  dif 
ference  between  them  and  the  works  of  an 
inspired  artist  as  between  a  sign-post  daub 
and  one  of  your  best  pictures." 

"  This  is  strange,"  cried  Copley,  looking 
him  in  the  face,  which  now,  as  the  painter 
fancied,  had  a  singular  depth  of  intelligence, 
though  hitherto  it  had  not  given  him  greatly 
the  advantage  over  his  own  family  of  wooden 
images.  "  What  has  come  over  you?  How 
is  it  that,  possessing  the  idea  which  you  have 
now  uttered,  you  should  produce  only  such 
works  as  these?  " 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 
Copley  turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiv 
ing  that  the  sense  of  deficiency  which 
Drowne  had  just  expressed,  and  which  is  so 
rare  in  a  merely  mechanical  character,  must 
surely  imply  a  genius,  the  tokens  of  which 
had  heretofore  been  overlooked.  But  no; 
there  was  not  a  trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to 
withdraw  when  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon 
a  half-developed  figure  which  lay  in  a  corner 
of  the  workshop,  surrounded  by  scattered 
chips  of  oak.  It  arrested  him  at  once. 

"  What  is  here?  Who  has  done  this?  "  he 
broke  out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speech 
less  astonishment  for  an  instant.  "  Here  is 
the  divine,  the  life-giving  touch.  What  in- 

110 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

spired  hand  is  beckoning  this  wood  to  arise 
and  live?  Whose  work  is  this?  " 

"  No  man's  work,"  replied  Browne.  "  The 
figure  lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is 
my  business  to  find  it." 

"  Browne,"  said  the  true  artist,  grasping 
the  carver  fervently  by  the  hand,  "  you  are 
a  man  of  genius!  " 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance 
backward  from  the  threshold,  he  beheld 
Browne  bending  over  the  half-created  shape, 
and  stretching  forth  his  arms  as  if  he  would 
have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his  heart; 
while,  had  such  a  miracle  been  possible,  his 
countenance  expressed  passion  enough  to 
communicate  warmth  and  sensibility  to  the 
lifeless  oak. 

"  Strange  enough!  "  said  the  artist  to  him 
self.  "  Who  would  have  looked  for  a  modern 
Pygmalion  in  the  person  of  a  Yankee 
mechanic!  ' 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  out 
ward  presentment;  so  that,  as  in  the  cloud- 
shapes  around  the  western  sun,  the  observer 
rather  felt,  or  was  led  to  imagine,  than  really 
saw  what  was  intended  by  it.  Bay  by  day, 
however,  the  work  assumed  greater  pre 
cision,  and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty 
outline  into  distincter  grace  and  beauty. 
The  general  design  was  now  obvious  to  the 
common  eye.  It  was  a  female  figure,  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  foreign  dress;  the  gown 

111 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

being  laced  over  the  bosom,  and  opening  in 
front  so  as  to  disclose  a  skirt  or  petticoat, 
the  folds  and  inequalities  of  which  were  ad 
mirably  represented  in  the  oaken  substance. 
She  wore  a  hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and 
abundantly  laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never 
grew  in  the  rude  soil  of  New  England,  but 
which,  with  all  their  fanciful  luxuriance,  had 
a  natural  truth  that  it  seemed  impossible  for 
the  most  fertile  imagination  to  have  attained 
without  copying  from  real  prototypes.  There 
were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress, 
such  as  a  fan,  a  pair  of  earrings,  a  chain 
about  the  neck,  a  watch  in  the  bosom,  and  a 
ring  upon  the  finger,  all  of  which  would  have 
been  deemed  beneath  the  dignity  of  sculp 
ture.  They  were  put  on,  however,  with  as 
much  taste  as  a  lovely  woman  might  have 
shown  in  her  attire,  and  could  therefore  have 
shocked  none  but  a  judgment  spoiled  by 
artistic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect;  but  gradually, 
by  a  magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility 
brightened  through  the  features,  with  all  the 
effect  of  light  gleaming  forth  from  within  the 
solid  oak.  The  face  became  alive.  It  was  a 
beautiful,  though  not  precisely  regular,  and 
somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but  with  a  certain 
piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  which, 
of  all  expressions,  would  have  seemed  the 
most  impossible  to  throw  over  a  wooden 
countenance.  And  now,  so  far  as  carving 

112 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

went,  this  wonderful  production  was  com 
plete. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly 
missed  a  single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  car 
ver's  workshop,  "  if  this  work  were  in  marble 
it  would  make  you  famous  at  once;  nay,  I 
would  almost  affirm  that  it  would  make  an 
era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an  antique 
statue,  and  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman 
whom  one  meets  at  a  fireside  or  in  the  street. 
But  I  trust  you  do  not  mean  to  desecrate 
this  exquisite  creature  with  paint,  like  those 
staring  kings  and  admirals  yonder?  " 

"  Not  paint  her  !  '  exclaimed  Captain 
Hunnewell,  who  stood  by;  "  not  paint  the 
figure-head  of  the  Cynosure!  And  what  sort 
of  a  figure  should  I  cut  in  a  foreign  port  with 
such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick  as  this  over 
my  prow!  She  must,  and  she  shall,  be 
painted  to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower 
in  her  hat  down  to  the  silver  spangles  pn  her 
slippers." 

"  Mr.  Copley,"  said  Drowne,  quietly,  "  I 
know  nothing  of  marble  statuary,  and  noth 
ing  of  the  sculptor's  rules  of  art;  but  of  this 
wooden  image,  this  work  of  my  hands,  this 
creature  of  my  heart," — and  here  his  voice 
faltered  and  choked  in  a  very  singular  man 
ner, — "  of  this — of  her — I  may  say  that  I 
know  something.  A  wellspring  of  inward 
wisdom  gushed  within  me  as  I  wrought  upon 
the  oak  with  my  whole  strength,  and  soul, 

113 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

and  faith.  Let  others  do  what  they  may  with 
marble,  and  adopt  what  rules  they  choose. 
If  I  can  produce  my  desired  effect  by  painted 
wood,  those  rules  are  not  for  me,  and  I  have 
a  right  to  disregard  them." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  genius,"  muttered 
Copley  to  himself.  "  How  otherwise  should 
this  carver  feel  himself  entitled  to  transcend 
all  rules,  and  make  me  ashamed  of  quoting 
them?" 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Browne,  and  again 
saw  that  expression  of  human  love  which,  in 
a  spiritual  sense,  as  the  artist  could  not  help 
imagining,  was  the  secret  of  the  life  that  had 
been  breathed  into  this  block  of  wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that 
marked  all  his  operations  upon  this  myste 
rious  image,  proceeded  to  paint  the  habili 
ments  in  their  proper  colors,  and  the  coun 
tenance  with  nature's  red  and  white.  When 
all  was  finished  he  threw  open  his  workshop, 
and  admitted  the  towns-people  to  behold 
what  he  had  done.  Most  persons,  at  their 
first  entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove  their 
hats,  and  pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to 
the  richly  dressed  and  beautiful  young  lady 
who  seemed  to  stand  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
with  oaken  chips  and  shavings  scattered  at 
her  feet.  Then  came  a  sensation  of  fear;  as 
if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like 
humanity,  she  must  therefore  be  something 
preternatural.  There  was,  in  truth,  an  inde- 

114 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

finable  air  and  expression  that  might  reason 
ably  induce  the  query,  Who  and  from  what 
sphere  this  daughter  of  the  oak  should  be? 
The  strange,  rich  flowers  of  Eden  on  her 
head;  the  complexion,  so  much  deeper  and 
more  brilliant  than  those  of  our  native 
beauties;  the  foreign,  as  it  seemed,  and  fan 
tastic  garb,  yet  not  too  fantastic  to  be  worn 
decorously  in  the  street;  the  delicately 
wrought  embroidery  of  the  skirt;  the  broad 
gold  chain  about  her  neck;  the  curious  ring 
upon  her  finger;  the  fan,  so  exquisitely  sculp 
tured  in  open-work,  and  painted  to  resemble 
pearl  and  ebony; — where  could  Browne,  in 
his  sober  walk  of  life,  have  beheld  the  vision 
here  so  matchlessly  embodied!  And  then 
her  face!  In  the  dark  eyes  and  around  the 
voluptuous  mouth  there  played  a  look  made 
up  of  pride,  coquetry,  and  a  gleam  of  mirth- 
fulness,  which  impressed  Copley  with  the 
idea  that  the  image  was  secretly  enjoying 
the  perplexing  admiration  of  himself  and 
other  beholders. 

"  And  will  you,"  said  he  to  the  carver, 
"  permit  this  masterpiece  to  become  the 
figure-head  of  a  vessel?  Give  the  honest 
captain  yonder  figure  of  Britannia, — it  will 
answer  his  purpose  far  better, — and  send  this 
fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught  I 
know,  it  may  bring  you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  have  not  wrought  it  for  money,"  said 
Drowne. 

115 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this!  "  thought 
Copley.  "  A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the 
chance  of  making  his  fortune!  He  has  gone 
mad;  and  thence  has  come  this  gleam  of 
genius." 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Browne's 
lunacy,  if  credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that 
he  had  been  seen  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the 
oaken  lady,  and  gazing  with  a  lover's  pas 
sionate  ardor  into  the  face  that  his  own 
hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day 
hinted  that  it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise 
if  an  evil  spirit  were  allowed  to  enter  this 
beautiful  form  and  seduce  the  carver  to 
destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide. 
The  inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally  that 
after  a  few  days  of  exhibition  there  was 
hardly  an  old  man  or  a  child  who  had  not 
become  minute,ly  familiar  with  its  aspect. 
Even  had  the  story  of  Browne's  wooden 
image  ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have 
been  prolonged  for  many  years  by  the  rem 
iniscences  of  those  who  looked  upon  it  in 
their  childhood,  and  saw  nothing  else  so 
beautiful  in  after  life.  But  the  town  was 
now  astounded  by  an  event  the  narrative  of 
whiVh  hoc  f — rQed  itself  into  one  of  the  most 
singular  legends  that  are  yet  to  be  met  with 
in  the  traditionary  chimney-corners  of  the 
New  England  metropolis,  where  old  men  and 
women  sit  dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wag 

116 


Drowne's   Wooden  Image 

their  heads  at  the  dreamers  of  the  present 
and  the  future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure 
of  the  Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to 
Fayal,  the  commander  of  that  gallant  vessel 
was  seen  to  issue  from  his  residence  in  Han 
over  Street.  He  was  stylishly  dressed  in  a 
blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold-lace  at  the 
seams  and  button-holes,  an  embroidered 
scarlet  waistcoat,  a  triangular  hat,  with  a 
loop  and  broad  binding  of  gold,  and  wore  a 
silver-hilted  hanger  at  his  side.  But  the 
good  captain  might  have  been  arrayed  in  the 
robes  of  a  prince  or  the  rags  of  a  beggar, 
without  in  either  case  attracting  notice, 
while  obscured  by  such  a  companion  as  now 
leaned  on  his  arm.  The  people  in  the  street 
started,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  either  leaped 
aside  from  their  path,  or  stood  as  if  trans 
fixed  to  wood  or  marble  in  astonishment. 

"Do  you  see  it? — do  you  see  it?"  cried 
one,  with  tremulous  eagerness.  "  It  is  the 
very  same!  ' 

"The  same?"  answered  another,  who  had 
arrived  in  town  only  the  night  before. 
"  Who  do  you  mean?  I  see  only  a  sea-cap 
tain  in  his  shore-going  clothes,  and  a  young 
lady  in  a  foreign  habit,  with  a  bunch  of  beau 
tiful  flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is 
as  fair  and  bright  a  damsel  as  my  eyes  have 
looked  on  this  many  a  day!  ' 

"Yes;  the  same! — the  very  same!'  re- 

117 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

peated  the  other.     "  Browne's  wooden  image 
has  conie  to  life!  " 

Here  was  a  miracle  indeed!  Yet,  illu 
minated  by  the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the 
alternate  shade  of  the  houses,  and  with  its 
garments  fluttering  lightly  in  the  morning 
breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along  the 
street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the 
shape,  the  garb,  and  the  face  which  the 
towns-people  had  so  recently  thronged  to  see 
and  admire.  Not  a  rich  flower  upon  her 
head,  not  a  single  leaf,  but  had  its  prototype 
in  Browne's  wooden  workmanship,  although 
now  their  fragile  grace  had  become  flexible, 
and  was  shaken  by  every  footstep  that  the 
wearer  made.  The  broad  gold  chain  upon 
the  neck  was  identical  with  the  one  repre 
sented  on  the  image,  and  glistened  with  the 
motion  imparted  by  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
bosom  which  it  decorated.  A  real  diamond 
sparkled  on  her  finger.  In  her  right  hand 
she  bore  a  pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she 
flourished  with  a  fantastic  and  bewitching 
coquetry,  that  was  likewise  expressed  in  all 
her  movements  as  well  as  in  the  style  of  her 
beauty  and  the  attire  that  so  well  harmon 
ized  with  it.  The  face,  with  its  brilliant 
depth  of  complexion,  had  the  same  piquancy 
of  mirthful  mischief  that  was  fixed  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  image,  but  which  was 
here  varied  and  continually  shifting,  yet  al 
ways  essentially  the  same,  like  the  sunny 

118 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

gleam  upon  a  bubbling  fountain.  On  the 
whole,  there  was  something  so  airy  and  yet 
so  real  in  the  figure,  and  withal  so  perfectly 
did  it  represent  Drowne's  image,  that  people 
knew  not  whether  to  suppose  the  magic  wood 
etherealized  into  a  spirit  or  warmed  and 
softened  into  an  actual  woman. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  muttered  a  Puritan 
of  the  old  stamp,  "  Browne  has  sold  himself 
to  the  Devil;  and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain 
Hunnewell  is  a  party  to  the  bargain." 

"  And  I,"  said  a  young  man  who  overheard 
him,  "  would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third 
victim,  for  the  liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely 
lips." 

"  And  so  would  I,"  said  Copley,  the  painter, 
"  for  the  privilege  of  taking  her  picture." 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it 
might  be,  still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain, 
proceeded  from  Hanover  Street  through  some 
of  the  cross  lanes  that  make  this  portion  of 
the  town  so  intricate,  to  Ann  Street,  thence 
into  Dock  Square,  and  so  downward  to 
Drowne's  shop,  which  stood  just  on  the 
water's  edge.  The  crowd  still  followed, 
gathering  volume  as  it  rolled  along.  Never 
had  a  modern  miracle  occurred  in  such  broad 
daylight,  nor  in  the  presence  of  such  a  mul 
titude  of  witnesses.  The  airy  image,  as  if 
conscious  that  she  was  the  object  of  the  mur 
murs  and  disturbance  that  swelled  behind 
her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flustered, 

119 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

yet  still  in  a  manner  consistent  with  the 
light  vivacity  and  sportive  mischief  that 
were  written  in  her  countenance.  She  was 
observed  to  flutter  her  fan  with  such  vehe 
ment  rapidity  that  the  elaborate  delicacy  of 
its  workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained 
broken  in  her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Browne's  door,  while  the  cap 
tain  threw  it  open,  the  marvellous  apparition 
paused  an  instant"  on  the  threshold,  assuming 
the  very  attitude  of  the  image,  and  casting 
over  the  crowd  that  glance  of  sunny  coquetry 
which  all  remembered  on  the  face  of  the 
oaken  lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then  dis 
appeared. 

"  Ah!  '  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a 
deep  breath,  as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

"  The  world  looks  darker  now  that  she  has 
vanished,"  said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as 
far  back  as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads, 
and  hinted  that  our  forefathers  would  have 
thought  it  a  pious  deed  to  burn  the  daughter 
of  the  oak  with  fire. 

"  If  she  be  other  than  a  bubble  of  the  ele 
ments,"  exclaimed  Copley,  "  I  must  look 
upon  her  face  again." 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop;  and 
there,  in  her  usual  corner,  stood  the  image, 
gazing  at  him,  as  it  might  seem,  with  the 
very  same  expression  of  mirthful  mischief 
that  had  been  the  farewell  look  of  the  appa- 

120 


Drowne's  Wooden  Image 

rition  when,  but  a  moment  before,  she  turned 
her  face  towards  the  crowd.  The  carver 
stood  beside  his  creation,  mending  the  beau 
tiful  fan,  which  by  some  accident  was  broken 
in  her  hand.  But  there  was  no  longer  any 
motion  in  the  life-like  image,  nor  any  real 
woman  in  the  workshop,  nor  even  the  witch 
craft  of  a  sunny  shadow,  that  might  have  de 
luded  people's  eyes  as  it  flitted  along  the 
street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too,  had  van 
ished.  His  hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  how 
ever,  were  audible  on  the  other  side  of  a  door 
that  opened  upon  the  water. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  stern  sheets,  my  lady," 
said  the  gallant  captain.  "  Come,  bear  a 
hand,  you  lubbers,  and  set  us  on  board  in 
the  turning  of  a  minute-glass." 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

"  Browne,"  said  Copley,  with  a  smile  of 
intelligence,  "  you  have  been  a  truly  for 
tunate  man.  What  painter  or  statuary  ever 
had  such  a  subject!  No  wonder  that  she 
inspired  a  genius  into  you,  and  first  created 
the  artist  who  afterwards  created  her  image." 

Browne  looked  at  him  Vith  a  visage  that 
bore  the  traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the 
light  of  imagination  and  sensibility,  so  re 
cently  illuminating  it,  had  departed.  He 
was  again  the  mechanical  carver  that  he  had 
been  known  to  be  all  his  lifetime. 

"  I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr. 
Copley,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his 

121 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

brow.  "This  image!  Can  it  have  been  my 
work?  Well,  I  have  wrought  it  in  a  kind  of 
dream;  and  now  that  I  am  broad  awake  I 
must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure  of 
Admiral  Vernon." 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the 
stolid  countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  pro 
geny,  and  completed  it  in  his  own  mechan 
ical  style,  from  which  he  was  never  known 
afterwards  to  deviate.  He  followed  his  busi 
ness  industriously  for  many  years,  acquired 
a  competence,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
life  attained  to  a  dignified  station  in  the 
church,  being  remembered  in  records  and 
traditions  as  Deacon  Browne,  the  carver. 
One  of  his  productions,  an  Indian  chief, 
gilded  all  over,  stood  during  the  better  part 
of  a  century  on  the  cupola  of  the  Province 
House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of  those  who 
looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun. 
Another  work  of  the  good  deacon's  hand — a 
reduced  likeness  of  his  friend  Captain  Hunne- 
well,  holding  a  telescope  and  quadrant — may 
be  seen  to  this  day,  at  the  corner  of  Broad 
and  State  Streets,  serving  in  the  useful  capac 
ity  of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a  nautical-instru 
ment  maker.  We  know  not  how  to  account 
for  the  inferiority  of  this  quaint  old  figure 
as  compared  with  the  recorded  excellence  of 
the  Oaken  Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition 
that  in  every  human  spirit  there  is  imagina 
tion,  sensibility,  creative  power,  genius, 

122 


Browne's  Wooden  Image 

which,  according  to  circumstances,  may 
either  be  developed  in  this  world,  or 
shrouded  in  a  mask  of  dulness  until  another 
state  of  being.  To  our  friend  Drowne  there 
came  a  brief  season  of  excitement,  kindled 
by  love.  It  rendered  him  a  genius  for  that 
one  occasion,  but  quenched  in  disappoint 
ment,  left  him  again  the  mechanical  carver 
in  wood,  without  the  power  even  of  appre 
ciating  the  work  that  his  own  hands  had 
wrought.  Yet,  who  can  doubt  that  the  very 
highest  state  to  which  a  human  spirit  can 
attain,  in  its  loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest 
and  most  natural  state,  and  that  Drowne  was 
more  consistent  with  himself  when  he 
wrought  the  admirable  figure  of  the  mys 
terious  lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated  a 
whole  progeny  of  blockheads? 

There  was  a  rumor  in  Boston,  about  this 
period,  that  a  young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank, 
on  some  occasion  of  political  or  domestic  dis 
quietude,  had  fled  from  her  home  in  Fayal 
and  put  herself  under  the  protection  of  Cap 
tain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of  whose  vessel, 
and  at  whose  residence,  she  was  sheltered 
until  a  change  of  affairs.  This  fair  stranger 
must  have  been  the  original  of  Browne's 
Wooden  Image. 


123 


The  Ambitious  Guest 


125 


The  Ambitious  Guest 


ONE  September  night,  a  family  had  gath 
ered  round  their  hearth,  and  piled  it  high 
with  the  drift-wood  of  mountain  streams,  the 
dry  cones  of  the  pine,  and  the  splintered 
ruins  of  great  trees,  that  had  come  crashing 
down  the  precipice.  Up  the  chimney  roared 
the  fire,  and  brightened  the  room  with  its 
broad  blaze.  The  faces  of  the  father  and 
mother  had  a  sober  gladness;  the  children 
laughed;  the  eldest  daughter  was  the  image 
of  Happiness  at  seventeen;  and  the  aged 
grandmother,  who  sat  knitting  in  the  warm 
est  place,  was  the  image  of  Happiness  grown 
old.  They  had  found  the  "  herb,  heart's- 
ease,"  in  the  bleakest  spot  of  all  New  Eng 
land.  This  family  were  situated  in  the  Notch 
of  the  White  Hills,  where  the  wind  was  sharp 
throughout  the  year,  and  pitilessly  cold  in 
the  winter, — giving  their  cottage  all  its  fresh 
inclemency,  before  it  descended  on  the  valley 
of  the  Saco.  They  dwelt  in  a  cold  spot  and 
a  dangerous  one;  for  a  mountain  towered 
above  their  heads,  so  steep,  that  the  stones 
would  often  rumble  down  its  sides,  and 
startle  them  at  midnight. 

127 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

The  daughter  had  just  uttered  some  simple 
jest,  that  filled  them  all  with  mirth,  when  the 
wind  came  through  the  Notch  and  seemed  to 
pause  before  their  cottage, — rattling  the 
door,  with  a  sound  of  wailing  and  lamenta 
tion,  before  it  passed  into  the  valley.  For 
a  moment,  it  saddened  them,  though  there 
was  nothing  unusual  in  the  tones.  But  the 
family  were  glad  again,  when  they  perceived 
that  the  latch  was  lifted  by  some  traveller, 
whose  footsteps  had  been  unheard  amid  the 
dreary  blast,  which  heralded  his  approach, 
and  wailed  as  he  was  entering,  and  went 
moaning  away  from  the  door. 

Though  they  dwelt  in  such  a  solitude,  these 
people  held  daily  converse  with  the  world. 
The  romantic  pass  of  the  Notch  is  a  great 
artery,  through  which  the  life-blood  of  in 
ternal  commerce  is  continually  throbbing, 
between  Maine  on  one  side  and  the  Green 
Mountains  and  the  shores  of  the  St.  Law 
rence  on  the  other.  The  stage-coach  always 
drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  The 
wayfarer,  with  no  companion  but  his  staff, 
paused  here  to  exchange  a  word,  that  the 
sense  of  loneliness  might  not  utterly  over 
come  him,  ere  he  could  pass  through  the  cleft 
of  the  mountain,  or  reach  the  first  house  in 
the  valley.  And  there  the  teamster,  on  his 
way  to  Portland  market,  would  put  up  for 
the  night;  and,  if  a  bachelor,  might  sit  an 
hour  beyond  the  usual  bedtime,  and  steal  a 

128 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

kiss  from  the  mountain-maid,  at  parting.  It 
was  one  of  those  primitive  taverns,  where  the 
traveller  pays  only  for  food  and  lodging,  but 
meets  with  a  homely  kindness,  beyond  all 
price.  When  the  footsteps  were  heard,  there 
fore,  between  the  outer  door  and  the  inner 
one,  the  whole  family  rose  up,  grandmother, 
children,  and  all,  as  if  about  to>  welcome 
some  one.  who  belonged  to  them,  and  whose 
fate  was  linked  with  theirs. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  man.  His 
face  at  first  wore  the  melancholy  expression, 
almost  despondency,  of  one  who  travels  a 
wild  and  bleak  road,  at  nightfall  and  alone, 
but  soon  brightened  up,  when  he  saw  the 
kindly  warmth  of  his  reception.  He  felt  his 
heart  spring  forward  to  meet  them  all,  from 
the  old  woman,  who  wiped  a  chair  with  her 
M£ron,  to  the  little  child  that  held  out  its 
arms  to  him.  One  glance  and  smile  placed 
the  stranger  on  a  footing  of  innocent  famil 
iarity  with  the  eldest  daughter. 

"  Ah,  this  fire  is  the  right  thing!  "  cried  he; 
"  especially  when  there  is  such  a  pleasant 
circle  round  it.  I  am  quite  benumbed;  for 
the  Notch  is  just  like  the  pipe  of  a  great  pair 
of  bellows;  it  has  blown  a  terrible  blast  in 
my  face,  all  the  way  from  Bartlett." 

"Then  you  are  going  towards  Vermont?' 
said  the  master  of  the  house,  as  he  helped  to 
take  a  light  knapsack  off  the  young  man's 
shoulders. 

129 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"Yes;  to  Burlington,  and  far  enough  be 
yond,"  replied  he.  "  I  meant  to  have  been  at 
Ethan  Crawford's  to-night;  but  a  pedestrian 
lingers  along  such  a  road  as  this.  It  is  no 
matter;  for,  when  I  saw  this  good  fire,  and 
all  your  cheerful  faces,  I  felt  as  if  you  had 
kindled  it  on  purpose  for  me,  and  were  wait 
ing  my  arrival.  So  I  shall  sit  down  among 
you,  and  make  myself  at  home." 

The  frank-hearted  stranger  had  just  drawn 
his  chair  to  the  fire,  when  something  like  a 
heavy  footstep  was  heard  without,  rushing 
down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain,  as  with 
long  and  rapid  strides,  and  taking  such  a 
leap,  in  passing  the  cottage,  as  to  strike  the 
opposite  precipice.  The  family  held  their 
breath,  because  they  knew  the  sound,  :.nd 
their  guest  held  his,  by  instinct. 

"  The  old  mountain  has  thrown  a  sto".^  at 
us,  for  fear  we  should  forget  him,"  sale!  the 
landlord,  recovering  himself.  "  He  some 
times  nods  his  head,  and  threatens  to  come 
down;  but  we  are  old  neighbors,  and  agree 
together  pretty  well,  upon  the  whole.  Be 
sides,  we  have  a  sure  place  of  refuge,  hard 
by,  if  he  should  be  coming  in  good  earnest." 

Let  us  now  suppose  the  stranger  to  have 
finished  his  supper  of  bear's  meat;  and,  by 
his  natural  felicity  of  manner,  to  have  placed 
himself  on  a  footing  of  kindness  with  the 
whole  family,  so  that  they  talked  as  freely 
together,  as  if  he  belonged  to  their  mountain 

130 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

brood.  He  was  of  a  proud,  yet  gentle  spirit, 
— haughty  and  reserved  among  the  rich  and 
great;  but  ever  ready  to  stoop  his  head  to 
the  lowly  cottage  door,  and  be  like  a  brother 
or  a  son  at  the  poor  man's  fireside.  In  the 
household  of  the  Notch,  he  found  warmth 
and  simplicity  of  feeling,  the  pervading  in 
telligence  of  New  England,  and  a  poetry  of 
native  growth,  which  they  had  gathered, 
when  they  little  thought  of  it,  from  the 
mountain  peaks  and  chasms,  and  at  the  very 
threshold  of  their  romantic  and  dangerous 
abode.  He  had  travelled  far  and  alone;  his 
whole  life,  indeed,  had  been  a  solitary  path; 
for,  with  the  lofty  caution  of  his  nature,  he 
had  kept  himself  apart  from  those  who  might 
otherwise  have  been  his  companions.  The 
family,  too,  though  so  kind  and  hospitable, 
had  that  consciousness  of  unity  among  them 
selves,  and  separation  from  the  world  at 
large,  which,  in  every  domestic  circle,  should 
still  keep  a  holy  place,  where  no  stranger 
may  intrude.  But,  this  evening,  a  prophetic 
sympathy  impelled  the  refined  and  educated 
youth  to  pour  out  his  heart  before  the  simple 
mountaineers,  and  constrained  them  to  an 
swer  him  with  the  same  free  confidence.  And 
thus  it  should  have  been.  Is  not  the  kindred 
of  a  common  fate  a  closer  tie  than  that  of 
birth? 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  was, 
a  high  and  abstracted  ambition.    He  could 

131 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

have  borne  to  live  an  undistinguished  life, 
but  not  to  be  forgotten  in  the  grave.  Yearn 
ing  desire  had  been  transformed  to  hope; 
and  hope,  long  cherished,  had  become  like 
certainty,  that,  obscurely  as  he  journeyed 
now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on  all  his  pathway, 
— though  not,  perhaps,  while  he  was  treading 
it.  But,  when  posterity  should  gaze  back 
into  the  gloom  of  what  was  now  the  present, 
they  would  trace  the  brightness  of  his  foot 
steps,  brightening  as  meaner  glories  faded, 
and  confess,  that  a  gifted  one  had  passed 
from  his  cradle  to  his  tomb,  with  none  to 
recognize  him. 

"  As  yet,"  cried  the  stranger,  his  cheek 
glowing  and  his  eye  flashing  with  enthu 
siasm, — "  as  yet,  I  have  done  nothing.  Were 
I  to  vanish  from  the  earth  to-morrow,  none 
would  know  so  much  of  me  as  you;  that  a 
nameless  youth  came  up,  at  nightfall,  from 
the  valley  of  the  Saco,  and  opened  his  heart 
to  you  in  the  evening,  and  passed  through 
the  Notch,  by  sunrise,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
Not  a  soul  would  ask,  '  Who  was  he  ? 
Whither  did  the  wanderer  go?  '  But,  I  can 
not  die  till  I  have  achieved  my  destiny. 
Then,  let  Death  come!  I  shall  have  built 
my  monument!  ' 

There  was  a  continual  flow  of  natural  emo 
tion,  gushing  forth  amid  abstracted  revery, 
which  enabled  the  family  to  understand  this 
young  man's  sentiments,  though  so  foreign 

132 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

from  their  own.  With  quick  sensibility  of 
the  ludicrous,  he  blushed  at  the  ardor  into 
which  he  had  been  betrayed. 

"  You  laugh  at  me,"  said  he,  taking  the 
eldest  daughter's  hand,  and  laughing  himself. 
"  You  think  my  ambition  as  nonsensical  as 
if  I  were  to  freeze  myself  to  death  on  the 
top  of  Mount  Washington,  only  that  people 
might  spy  at  me  from  the  country  round 
about.  And  truly,  that  would  be  a  noble 
pedestal  for  a  man's  statue!  " 

"  It  is  better  to  sit  here  by  this  fire,"  an 
swered  the  girl,  blushing,  "  and  be  comfort 
able  and  contented,  though  nobody  thinks 
about  us." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  after  a  fit  of 
musing,  "  there  is  something  natural  in  what 
the  young  man  says;  and  if  my  mind  had 
been  turned  that  way,  I  might  have  felt  just 
the  same.  It  is  strange,  wife,  how  his  talk 
has  set  my  head  running  on  things  that  are 
pretty  certain  never  to  come  to  pass." 

"  Perhaps  they  may,"  observed  the  wife. 
"  Is  the  man  thinking  what  he  will  do  when 
he  is  a  widower?  " 

"  No,  no!  "  cried  he,  repelling  the  idea  with 
reproachful  kindness.  "  When  I  think  of 
your  death,  Esther,  I  think  of  mine,  too.  But 
I  was  wishing  we  had  a  good  farm,  in  Bart- 
lett,  or  Bethlehem,  or  Littleton,  or  some 
other  township  round  the  White  Mountains; 
but  not  where  they  could  tumble  on  our 

133 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

heads.  I  should  want  to  stand  well  with  my 
neighbors,  and  be  called  Squire,  and  sent  to 
General  Court  for  a  term  or  two;  for  a  plain, 
honest  man  may  do  as  much  good  there  as 
a  lawyer.  And  when  I  should  be  grown 
quite  an  old  man,  and  you  an  old  woman,  so 
as  not  to  be  long  apart,  I  might  die  happy 
enough  in  my  bed,  and  leave  you  all  crying 
around  me.  A  slate  gravestone  would  suit 
me  as  well  as  a  marble  one, — with  just  my 
name  and  age,  and  a  verse  of  a  hymn,  and 
something  to  let  people  know  that  I  lived  an 
honest  man  and  died  a  Christian." 

"  There  now!  "  exclaimed  the  stranger;  "it 
is  our  nature  to  desire  a  monument,  be  it 
slate,  or  marble,  or  a  pillar  of  granite,  or  a 
glorious  memory  in  the  universal  heart  of 
man." 

"  We're  in  a  strange  way,  to-night,"  said 
the  wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  They  say 
it's  a  sign  of  something,  when  folks'  minds 
go  a  wandering  so.  Hark  to  the  children!  ' 

They  listened  accordingly.  The  younger 
children  had  been  put  to  bed  in  another 
room,  but  with  an  open  door  between,  so  that 
they  could  be  heard  talking  busily  among 
themselves.  One  and  all  seemed  to  have 
caught  the  infection  from  the  fireside  circle, 
and  were  outvying  each  other  in  wild  wishes 
and  childish  projects  of  what  they  would  do 
when  they  came  to  be  men  and  women.  At 
length,  a  little  boy,  instead  of  addressing 

134 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

his  brothers  and   sisters,   called  out  to  his 
mother. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish,  mother,"  cried 
he.  "  I  want  you  and  father  and  grandma'm, 
and  all  of  us,  and  the  stranger  too,  to  start 
right  away,  and  go  and  take  a  drink  out  of 
the  basin  of  the  Flume!  " 

Nobody  could  help  laughing  at  the  child's 
notion  of  leaving  a  warm  bed,  and  dragging 
them  from  a  cheerful  fire,  to  visit  the  basin 
of  the  Flume, — a  brook  which  tumbles  over 
the  precipice,  deep  within  the  Notch.  The 
boy  had  hardly  spoken,  when  a  wagon  rattled 
along  the  road,  and  stopped  a  moment  before 
the  door.  It  appeared  to  contain  two  or 
three  men,  who  were  cheering  their  hearts 
with  the  rough  chorus  of  a  song,  which  re 
sounded,  in  broken  notes,  between  the  cliffs, 
while  the  singers  hesitated  whether  to  con 
tinue  their  journey,  or  put  up  here  for  the 
night. 

"  Father,"  said  the  girl,  "  they  are  calling 
you  by  name." 

But  the  good  man  doubted  whether  they 
had  really  called  him,  and  was  unwilling  to 
show  himself  too  solicitous  of  gain,  by  invit 
ing  people  to  patronize  his  house.  He  there 
fore  did  not  hurry  to  the  door;  and  the  lash 
being  soon  applied,  the  travellers  plunged 
into  the  Notch,  still  singing  and  laughing, 
though  their  music  and  mirth  came  back 
drearily  from  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

135 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"There,  mother!"  cried  the  boy,  again. 
"  They'd  have  given  us  a  ride  to  the  Flume." 

Again  they  laughed  at  the  child's  pertina 
cious  fancy  for  a  night  ramble.  But  it  hap 
pened,  that  a  light  cloud  passed  over  the 
daughter's  spirit;  she  looked  gravely  into 
the  fire,  and  drew  a  breath  that  was  almost  a 
sigh.  It  forced  its  way,  in  spite  of  a  little 
struggle  to  repress  it.  Then  starting  and 
blushing,  she  looked  quickly  round  the  circle, 
as  if  they  had  caught  a  glimpse  into  her 
bosom.  The  stranger  asked  what  she  had 
been  thinking  of. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  she,  with  a  downcast 
smile.  "  Only  I  felt  lonesome  just  then." 

"  O,  I  have  always  had  a  gift  of  feeling 
what  is  in  other  people's  hearts!  "  said  he, 
half  seriously.  "  Shall  I  tell  the  secrets  of 
yours?  For  I  know  what  to  think,  when  a 
young  girl  shivers  by  a  warm  hearth,  and 
complains  of  lonesomeness  at  her  mother's 
side.  Shall  I  put  these  feelings  into  words?  ' 

"  They  would  not  be  a  girl  i  feelings  any 
longer,  if  they  could  be  put  into  words,"  re 
plied  the  mountain  nymph,  laughing,  but 
avoiding  his  eye. 

All  this  was  said  apart.  Perhaps  a  germ 
of  love  was  springing  in  their  hearts,  so  pure 
that  it  might  blossom  in  Paradise,  since  it 
could  not  be  matured  on  earth;  for  women 
worship  such  gentle  dignity  as  his;  and  the 
proud,  contemplative,  yet  kindly  soul  is 

136 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

oftenest  captivated  by  simplicity  like  hers. 
But,  while  they  spoke  softly,  and  he  was 
watching  the  happy  sadness,  the  lightsome 
shadows,  the  shy  yearnings  of  a  maiden's 
nature,  the  wind,  through  the  Notch,  took  a 
deeper  and  drearier  sound.  It  seemed,  as 
the  fanciful  stranger  said,  like  the  choral 
strain  of  the  spirits  of  the  blast,  who,  in  old 
Indian  times,  had  their  dwelling  among  these 
mountains,  and  made  their  heights  and  re 
cesses  a  sacred  region.  There  was  a  wail, 
along  the  road,  as  if  a  funeral  were  passing. 
To  chase  away  the  gloom,  the  family  threw 
pine  branches  on  their  fire,  till  the  dry  leaves 
crackled  and  the  flame  arose,  discovering 
once  again  a  scene  of  peace  and  humble  hap 
piness.  The  light  hovered  about  them 
fondly,  and  caressed  them  all.  There  were 
the  little  faces  of  the  children,  peeping  from 
their  bed  apart,  and  here  the  father's  frame 
of  strength,  the  mother's  subdued  and  care 
ful  mien,  the  high-browed  youth,  the  budding 
girl,  and  the  good  old  grandam,  still  knitting 
in  the  warmest  place.  The  aged  woman 
looked  up  from  her  task,  and,  with  fingers 
ever  busy,  was  the  next  to  speak. 

"  Old  folks  have  their  notions,"  said  she, 
"  as  well  as  young  ones.  You've  been  wish 
ing  and  planning;  and  letting  your  heads  run 
on  one  thing  and  another,  till  you've  set  my 
mind  a-wandering  too.  Now  what  should 
an  old  woman  wish  for,  when  she  can  go  but 

137 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

a  step  or  two  before  she  comes  to  her  grave? 
Children,  it  will  haunt  me  night  and  day,  till 
I  tell  you." 

"  What  is  it,  mother?  "  cried  the  husband 
and  wife,  at  once. 

Then  the  old  woman,  with  an  air  of  mys 
tery,  which  drew  the  circle  closer  round  the 
fire,  informed  them  that  she  had  provided 
her  graveclothes  some  years  before, — a  nice 
linen  shroud,  a  cap  with  a  muslin  ruff,  and 
everything  of  a  finer  sort  than  she  had  worn 
since  her  wedding-day.  But,  this  evening, 
an  old  superstition  had  strangely  recurred  to 
her.  It  used  to  be  said,  in  her  younger  days, 
that,  if  anything  were  amiss  with  a  corpse, 
if  only  the  ruff  were  not  smooth,  or  the  cap 
did  not  set  right,  the  corpse,  in  the  coffin  and 
beneath  the  clods,  would  strive  to  put  up  its 
cold  hands  and  arrange  it.  The  bare  thought 
made  her  nervous. 

"Don't  talk  so,  grandmother!"  said  the 
girl,  shuddering. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  old  woman,  with 
singular  earnestness,  yet  smiling  strangely 
at  her  own  folly,  "  I  want  one  of  you,  my 
children, — when  your  mother  is  dressed,  and 
in  the  coffin, — I  want  one  of  you-  to  hold  a 
looking-glass  over  my  face.  Who  knows  but 
I  may  take  a  glimpse  at  myself,  and  see 
whether  all's  right?" 

"  Old  and  young,  we  dream  of  graves  and 
monuments,"  murmured  the  stranger  youth. 

138 


The  Ambitious  Guest 

"  I  wonder  how  mariners  feel,  when  the  ship 
is  sinking,  and  they,  unknown  and  undis 
tinguished,  are  to  be  buried  together  in  the 
ocean, — that  wide  and  nameless  sepulchre?  " 

For  a  moment,  the  old  woman's  ghastly 
conception  so  engrossed  the  minds  of  her 
hearers,  that  a  sound,  abroad  in  the  night, 
rising  like  the  roar  of  a  blast,  had  grown 
broad,  deep,  and  terrible,  before  the  fated 
group  were  conscious  of  it.  The  house,  and 
all  within  it,  trembled;  the  foundations  of 
the  earth  seemed  to  be  shaken,  as  if  this 
awful  sound  were  the  peal  of  the  last  trump. 
Young  and  old  exchanged  one  wild  glance, 
and  remained  an  instant,  pale,  affrighted, 
without  utterance,  or  power  to  move.  Then 
the  same  shriek  burst  simultaneously  from 
all  their  lips. 

"The  Slide!     The  Slide!  " 

The  simplest  words  must  intimate,  but  not 
portray,  the  unutterable  horror  of  the  catas 
trophe.  The  victims  rushed  from  their  cot 
tage,  and  sought  refuge  in  what  they  deemed 
a  safer  spot, — where,  in  contemplation  of 
such  an  emergency,  a  sort  of  barrier  had 
been  reared.  Alas!  they  had  quitted  their 
security,  and  fled  right  into  the  pathway  of 
destruction.  Down  came  the  whole  side  of 
the  mountain,  in  a  cataract  of  ruin.  Just 
before  it  reached  the  house,  the  stream  broke 
into  two  branches, — shivered  not  a  window 
there,  but  overwhelmed  the  whole  vicinity, 

139 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

blocked  up  the  road,  and  annihilated  every 
thing  in  its  dreadful  course.  Long  ere  the 
thunder  of  that  great  Slide  had  ceased  to 
roar  among  the  mountains,  the  mortal  agony 
had  been  endured,  and  the  victims  were  at 
peace.  Their  bodies  were  never  found. 

The  next  morning,  the  light  smoke  was 
seen  stealing  from  the  cottage  chimney,  up 
the  mountain-side.  Within,  the  fire  was  yet 
smouldering  on  the  hearth,  and  the  chairs  in 
a  circle  round  it,  as  if  the  inhabitants  had 
but  gone  forth  to  view  the  devastation  of  the 
Slide,  and  would  shortly  return,  to  thank 
Heaven  for  their  miraculous  escape.  All  had 
left  separate  tokens,  by  which  those  who  had 
known  the  family  were  made  to  shed  a  tear 
for  each.  Who  has  not  heard  their  name? 
The  story  has  been  told  far  and  wide,  and 
will  forever  be  a  legend  of  these  mountains. 
Poets  have  sung  their  fate. 

There  were  circumstances  which  led  some 
to  suppose  that  a  stranger  had  been  received 
into  the  cottage  on  this  awful  night,  and  had 
shared  the  catastrophe  of  all  its  inmates. 
Others  denied  that  there  were  sufficient 
grounds  for  such  a  conjecture.  Woe,  for  the 
high-souled  youth,  with  his  dream  of  earthly 
immortality!  His  name  and  person  utterly 
unknown;  his  history,  his  way  of  life,  his 
plans,  a  mystery  never  to  be  solved;  his 
death  and  his  existence  equally  a  doubt! 
Whose  was  the  agony  of  that  death  moment? 

HO 


The  Great  Stone  Face 


141 


The  Great  Stone  Face 


ONE  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going 
down,  a  mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the 
door  of  their  cottage,  talking  about  the  Great 
Stone  Face.  They  had  but  to  lift  their  eyes, 
and  there  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  though 
miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  brightening 
all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face? 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty 
mountains,  there  was  a  valley  so  spacious 
that  it  contained  many  thousand  inhabitants. 
Some  of  these  good  people  dwelt  in  log-huts, 
with  the  black  forest  all  around  them,  on  the 
steep  and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had  their 
homes  in  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  culti 
vated  the  rich  soil  on  the  gentle  slopes  or 
level  surfaces  of  the  valley.  Others,  again, 
were  congregated  into  populous  villages, 
where  some  wild,  highland  rivulet,  tumbling 
down  from  its  birthplace  in  the  upper  moun 
tain  region,  had  been  caught  and  tamed  by 
human  cunning,  and  compelled  to  turn  the 
machinery  of  cotton-factories.  The  inhabi 
tants  of  this  valley,  in  short,  were  numerous, 

143 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

and  of  many  modes  of  life.     But  all  of  them, 
grown  people  and   children,   had   a  kind   of 
familiarity  with   the   Great  Stone  Face,   al 
though   some   possessed   the   gift    of   distin 
guishing    this    grand    natural    phenomenon 
more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neighbors. 
The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a  work  of 
Nature  in  her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness, 
formed  on  the  perpendicular  side  of  a  moun 
tain  by  some  immense  rocks,  which  had  been 
thrown  together  in  such  a  position  as,  when 
viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to  re 
semble  the  features   of   the   human   counte 
nance.    It  seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or 
a  Titan,  had  sculptured  his  own  likeness  on 
the  precipice.     There  was  the  broad  arch  of 
the  forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in  height;   the 
nose,  with  its  long  bridge;  and  the  vast  lips, 
which,  if  they  could  have  spoken,  would  have 
rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of 
the  valley  to  the  other.     True  it  is,  that  if  the 
spectator  approached  too  near,  he  lost  the 
outline  of  the  gigantic  visage,  and  could  dis 
cern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous  and  gigantic 
rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon  another. 
Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous 
features  would  again  be  seen;  and  the  farther 
he   withdrew   from    them,   the   more   like   a 
human  face,  with  all  its  original  divinity  in 
tact,  did  they  appear;  until,  as  it  grew  dim  in 
the  distance,   with  the  clouds  and  glorified 
vapor  of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it, 

144 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

the  Great  Stone  Face  seemed  positively  to  be 
alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up 
to  manhood  or  womanhood  with  the  Great 
Stone  Face  before  their  eyes,  for  all  the  feat 
ures  were  noble,  and  the  expression  was  at 
once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were  the  glow 
of  a  vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all 
mankind  in  its  affections,  and  had  room  for 
more.  It  was  an  education  only  to  look  at 
it.  According  to  the  belief  of  many  people, 
the  valley  owed  much  of  its  fertility  to  this 
benign  aspect  that  was  continually  beaming 
over  it,  illuminating  the  clouds,  and  infusing 
its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her 
little  boy  sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at 
the  Great  Stone  Face,  and  talking  about  it. 
The  child's  name  was  Ernest. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage 
smiled  on  him,  "  I  wish  that  it  could  speak, 
for  it  looks  so  very  kindly  that  its  voice  must 
needs  be  pleasant.  If  I  were  to  see  a  man 
with  such  a  face,  I  should  love  him  dearly." 

"  If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass," 
answered  his  mother,  "  we  may  see  a  man, 
some  time  or  other,  with  exactly  such  a  face 
as  that." 

"  What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear 
mother? "  eagerly  inquired  Ernest.  "  Pray 
tell  me  all  about  it!  " 

So  his  mother  told  him  a  story  that  her 

145 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

own  mother  had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself 
was  younger  than  little  Ernest;  a  story,  not 
of  things  that  were  past,  but  of  what  was  yet 
to  come;  a  story,  nevertheless,  so  very  old, 
that  even  the  Indians,  who  formerly  inhab 
ited  this  valley,  had  heard  it  from  their  fore 
fathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed,  it  had 
been  murmured  by  the  mountain  streams, 
and  whispered  by  the  wind  among  the  tree- 
tops.  The  purport  was,  that,  at  some  future 
day,  a  child  should  be  born  hereabouts,  who 
was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  and 
noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and  whose 
countenance,  in  manhood,  should  bear  an 
exact  resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Not  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  and  young 
ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes, 
still  cherished  an  enduring  faith  in  this  old 
prophecy.  But  others,  who  had  seen  more 
of  the  world,  had  watched  and  waited  till 
they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no  man 
with  such  a  face,  nor  any  man  that  proved 
to  be  much  greater  or  nobler  than  his  neigh 
bors,  concluded  it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle 
tale.  At  all  events,  the  great  man  of  the 
prophecy  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"0  mother,  dear  mother!'  cried  Ernest, 
clapping  his  hands  above  his  head,  "  I  do 
hope  that  I  shall  live  to  see  him!  ' 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and 
thoughtful  woman,  and  felt  that  it  was 
wisest  not  to  discourage  the  generous  hopes 

146 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only  said  to  him, 
"  Perhaps  you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his 
mother  told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind, 
whenever  he  looked  upon  the  Great  Stone 
Face.  He  spent  his  childhood  in  the  log- 
cottage  where  he  was  born,  and  was  dutiful 
to  his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many 
things,  assisting  her  much  with  his  little 
hands,  and  more  with  his  loving  heart.  In 
this  manner,  from  a  happy  yet  often  pensive 
child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a  mild,  quiet,  unob 
trusive  boy,  and  sun-browned  with  labor  in 
the  fields,  but  with  more  intelligence  bright 
ening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in  many  lads 
who  have  been  taught  at  famous  schools. 
Yet  Ernest  had  had  no  teacher,  save  only 
that  the  Great  Stone  Face  became  one  to 
him.  When  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over, 
he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began 
to  imagine  that  those  vast  features  recog 
nized  him,  and  gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness 
and  encouragement,  responsive  to  his  own 
look  of  veneration.  We  must  not  take  upon 
us  to  affirm  that  this  was  a  mistake,  although 
the  Face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at 
Ernest  than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But 
the  secret  was,  that  the  boy's  tender  and  con 
fiding  simplicity  discerned  what  other  people 
could  not  see;  and  thus  the  love,  which  was 
meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar  portion. 

About  this  time,  there  went  a  rumor 

147 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

throughout  the  valley,  that  the  great  man, 
foretold  from  ages  long  ago,  who  was  to 
bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  that,  many 
years  before,  a  young  man  had  migrated 
from  the  valley  and  settled  at  a  distant  sea 
port,  where,  after  getting  together  a  little 
money,  he  had  set  up  as  a  shopkeeper.  His 
name — but  I  could  never  learn  whether  it 
was  his  real  one,  or  a  nickname  that  had 
grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success  in  life 
-was  Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active, 
and  endowed  by  Providence  with  that  in 
scrutable  faculty  which  develops  itself  in 
what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  became  an  ex 
ceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a 
whole  fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships.  All  the 
countries  of  the  globe  appeared  to  join  hands 
for  the  mere  purpose  of  adding  heap  after 
heap  to  the  mountainous  accumulation  of 
this  one  man's  wealth.  The  cold  regions  of 
the  north,  almost  within  the  gloom  and 
shadow  of  the  Arctic  Circle,  sent  him  their 
tribute  in  the  shape  of  furs;  hot  Africa  sifted 
for  him  the  golden  sands  of  her  rivers,  and 
gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her  great  ele 
phants  out  of  the  forests;  the  East  came 
bringing  him  the  rich  shawls,  and  spices,  and 
teas,  and  the  effulgence  of  diamonds,  and  the 
gleaming  purity  of  large  pearls.  The  ocean, 
not  to  be  behindhand  with  the  earth,  yielded 
up  her  mighty  whales,  that  Mr.  Gathergold 

148 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

might  sell  their  oil,  and  make  a  profit  on  it. 
Be  the  original  commodity  what  it  might,  it 
was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be  said 
of  him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  what 
ever  he  touched  with  his  finger  immediately 
glistened,  and  grew  yellow,  and  was  changed 
at  once  into  sterling  metal,  or,  which  suited 
him  still  better,  into  piles  of  coin.  And, 
when  Mr.  Gathergold  had  become  so  very 
rich  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a  hundred 
years  only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  bethought 
himself  of  his  native  valley,  and  resolved  to 
go  back  thither,  and  end  his  days  where  he 
was  born.  With  this  purpose  in  view,  he 
sent  a  skilful  architect  to  build  him  such  a 
palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast 
wealth  to  live  in. 

As  I  have  said  above,  it  had  already  been 
rumored  in  the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold 
had  turned  out  to  be  the  prophetic  personage 
so  long  and  vainly  looked  for,  and  that  his 
visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable  simili 
tude  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were 
the  more  ready  to  believe  that  this  must 
needs  be  the  fact,  when  they  beheld  the 
splendid  edifice  that  rose,  as  if  by  enchant 
ment,  on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather- 
beaten  farm-house.  The  exterior  was  of 
marble,  so  dazzlingly  white  that  it  seemed  as 
though  the  whole  structure  might  melt  away 
in  the  sunshine,  like  those  humbler  ones 
which  Mr.  Gathergold,  in  his  young  play- 

149 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

days,  before  his  fingers  were  gifted  with  the 
touch  of  transmutation,  had  been  accustomed 
to  build  of  snow.  It  had  a  richly  ornamented 
portico,  supported  by  tall  pillars,  beneath 
which  was  a  lofty  door,  studded  with  silver 
knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind  of  variegated 
wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond  the 
sea.  The  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceil 
ing  of  each  stately  apartment,  were  com 
posed,  respectively,  of  but  one  enormous 
pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that  it 
was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the 
vacant  atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had 
been  permitted  to  see  the  interior  of  this 
palace;  but  it  was  reported,  and  with  good 
semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more  gorgeous 
than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever 
was  iron  or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver 
or  gold  in  this;  and  Mr.  Gathergold's  bed 
chamber,  especially,  made  such  a  glittering 
appearance  that  no  ordinary  man  would  have 
been  able  to  close  his  eyes  there.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold  was  now  so  in 
ured  to  wealth,  that  perhaps  he  could  not 
have  closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam 
of  it  was  certain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his 
eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished; 
next  came  the  upholsterers,  with  magnificent 
furniture;  then,  a  whole  troop  of  black  and 
white  servants,  the  harbingers  of  Mr.  Gather- 
gold,  who  in  his  own  majestic  person,  was 

150 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend 
Ernest,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  stirred 
by  the  idea  that  the  great  man,  the  noble 
man,  the  man  of  prophecy,  after  so  many 
ages  of  delay,  was  at  length  to  be  made 
manifest  to  his  native  valley.  He  knew,  boy 
as  he  was,  that  there  were  a  thousand  ways 
in  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast 
wealth,  might  transform  himself  into  an 
angel  of  beneficence,  and  assume  a  control 
over  human  affairs  as  wide  and  benignant 
as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Full 
of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that 
what  the  people  said  was  true,  and  that  now 
he  was  to  behold  the  living  likeness  of  those 
wondrous  features  on  the  mountain-side. 
While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the  valley, 
and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze  and 
looked  kindly  at  him,  the  rumbling  of  wheels 
was  heard,  approaching  swiftly  along  the 
winding  road,  i 

"  Here  he  comes!  "  cried  a  group  of  people 
who  were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival. 
"  Here  comes  the  great  Mr.  Gathergold!  ' 

A  carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  dashed 
round  the  turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust 
partly  out  of  the  window,  appeared  the 
physiognomy  of  a  little  old  man,  with  a  skin 
as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand  had 
transmuted  it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small, 
sharp  eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable 

151 


Nathaniel   Hawthorne 

wrinkles,  and  very  thin  lips,  which  he  made 
still  thinner  by  pressing  them  forcibly  to 
gether. 

"The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face!  "  shouted  the  people.  "Sure  enough, 
the  old  prophecy  is  true;  and  here  we  have 
the  great  man  come,  at  last!  " 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they 
seemed  actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the 
likeness  which  they  spoke  of.  By  the  road 
side  there  chanced  to  be  an  old  beggar- 
woman  and  two  little  beggar-children,  strag 
glers  from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the 
carriage  rolled  onward,  held  out  their  hands 
and  lifted  up  their  doleful  voices,  most 
piteously  beseeching  charity.  A  yellow  claw 
— the  very  same  that  had  clawed  together  so 
much  wealth — poked  itself  out  of  the  coach- 
window,  and  dropt  some  copper  coins  upon 
the  ground;  so  that,  though  the  great  man's 
name  seems  to  have  been  Gathergold,  he 
might  just  as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed 
Scattercopper.  Still,  nevertheless,  with  an 
earnest  shout,  and  evidently  with  as  much 
good  faith  as  ever,  the  people  bellowed,— 

"  He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face!  " 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled 
shrewdness  of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed 
up  the  valley,  where,  amid  a  gathering  mist, 
gilded  by  the  last  sunbeams,  he  could  still 
distinguish  those  glorious  features  which 

152 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul. 
Their  aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the 
benign  lips  seem  to  say? 

"He  will  come!  Fear  not,  Ernest;  the 
man  will  come!  " 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to 
be  a  boy.  He  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man 
now.  He  attracted  little  notice  from  the 
other  inhabitants  of  the  valley;  for  ihey  saw 
nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life,  save 
that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he 
still  loved  to  go  apart  and  gaze  and  meditate 
upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  According  to 
their  idea  of  the  matter,  it  was  a  folly,  in 
deed,  but  pardonable,  inasmuch  as  Ernest 
was  industrious,  kind,  and  neighborly,  and 
neglected  no  duty  for  the  sake  of  indulging 
this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  had  become  a  teacher  to 
him,  and  that  the  sentiment  which  was  ex 
pressed  in  it  would  enlarge  the  young  man's 
heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and  deeper  sym 
pathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not 
that  thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than 
could  be  learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life 
than  could  be  moulded  on  the  defaced  ex 
ample  of  other  human  lives.  Neither  did 
Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affections 
which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields 
and  at  the  fireside,  and  wherever  he  com 
muned  with  himself,  were  of  a  higher  tone 
than  those  which  all  men  shared  with  him. 

153 


Nathaniel   Hawthorne 

A  simple  soul, — simple  as  when  his  mother 
first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy, — he  beheld, 
the  marvellous  features  beaming  adown  the 
valley,  and  still  wondered  that  their  human 
counterpart  was  so  long  in  making  his 
appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead 
and  buried;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter 
was,  that  his  wealth,  which  was  the  body  and 
spirit  of  his  existence,  had  disappeared  be 
fore  his  death,  leaving  nothing  of  him  but 
a  living  skeleton,  covered  over  with  a 
wrinkled,  yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting 
away  of  his  gold,  it  had  been  very  generally 
conceded  that  there  was  no  such  striking  re 
semblance,  after  all,  betwixt  the  ignoble  feat 
ures  of  the  ruined  merchant  and  that  majes 
tic  face  upon  the  mountain-side.  So  the 
people  ceased  to  honor  him  during  his  life 
time,  and  quietly  consigned  him  to  forgetful- 
ness  after  his  decease.  Once  in  a  while,  it 
is  true,  his  memory  was  brought  up  in  con 
nection  with  the  magnificent  palace  which 
he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago  been 
turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation 
of  strangers,  multitudes  of  whom  came, 
every  summer,  to  visit  that  famous  natural 
curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Thus,  Mr. 
Gathergold  being  discredited  and  thrown 
into  the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  yet 
to  come. 

It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of 

154 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

the  valley,  many  years  before,  had  enlisted 
as  a  soldier,  and,  after  a  great  deal  of  hard 
fighting,  had  now  become  an  illustrious  com 
mander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called  in 
history,  he  was  known  in  camps  and  on 
the  battle-field  under  the  nickname  of  Old 
Blood-and-Thunder.  This  war-worn  veteran, 
being  now  infirm  with  age  and  wounds,  and 
weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life,  and  of 
the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the 
trumpet,  that  had  so  long  been  ringing  in 
his  ears,  had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of 
returning  to  his  native  valley,  hoping  to  find 
repose  where  he  remembered  to  have  left  it. 
The  inhabitants,  his  old  neighbors  and  their 
grown-up  children,  were  resolved  to  welcome 
the  renowned  warrior  with  a  salute  of  can 
non  and  a  public  dinner;  and  all  the  more 
enthusiastically,  it  being  affirmed  that  now, 
at  last,  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face 
had  actually  appeared.  An  aid-de-camp  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  travelling  through 
the  valley,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  resemblance.  Moreover  the  schoolmates 
and  early  acquaintances  of  the  general  were 
ready  to  testify,  on  oath,  that,  to  the  best  of 
their  recollection,  the  aforesaid  general  had 
been  exceedingly  like  the  majestic  image, 
even  when  a  boy,  only  that  the  idea  had 
never  occurred  to  them  at  that  period. 
Great,  therefore,  was  the  excitement  through 
out  the  valley;  and  many  people,  who  had 

155 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

never  once  thought  of  glancing  at  the  Great 
Stone  Face  for  years  before,  now  spent  their 
time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder 
looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest, 
with  all  the  other  people  of  the  valley,  left 
their  work,  and  proceeded  to  the  spot  where 
the  sylvan  banquet  was  prepared.  As  he  ap 
proached,  the  loud  voice  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing 
on  the  good  things  set  before  them,  and  on 
the  distinguished  friend  of  peace  in  whose 
honor  they  were  assembled.  The  tables  were 
arranged  in  a  cleared  space  of  the  woods,  shut 
in  by  the  surrounding  trees,  except  where  a 
vista  opened  eastward,  and  afforded  a  distant 
view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Over  the 
general's  chair,  which  was  a  relic  from  the 
home  of  Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of 
verdant  boughs,  with  the  laurel  profusely 
intermixed,  and  surmounted  by  his  country's 
banner,  beneath  which  he  had  won  his  vic 
tories.  Our  friend  Ernest  raised  himself  on 
his  tiptoes,  in  hopes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
celebrated  guest;  but  there  was  a  mighty 
crowd  about  the  tables  anxious  to  hear  the 
toasts  and  speeches,  and  to  catch  any  word 
that  might  fall  from  the  general  in  reply; 
and  a  volunteer  company,  doing  duty  as  a 
guard,  pricked  ruthlessly  with  their  bayonets 
at  any  particularly  quiet  person  among  the 

156 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

throng.  So  Ernest,  being  of  an  unobtrusive 
character,  was  thrust  quite  into  the  back 
ground,  where  he  could  see  no  more  of  Old 
Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy  than  if  it 
had  been  still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.  To 
console  himself,  he  turned  towards  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  which,  like  a  faithful  and  long- 
remembered  friend,  looked  back  and  smiled 
upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the  forest. 
Meantime,  however,  he  could  overhear  the 
remarks  of  various  individuals,  who  were 
comparing  the  features  of  the  hero  with  the 
face  on  the  distant  mountain-side. 

"  Tis  the  same  face,  to  a  hair!  "  cried  one 
man,  cutting  a  caper  for  joy. 

"Wonderfully  like,  that's  a  fact!"  re 
sponded  another. 

"Like!  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-and 
Thunder  himself,  in  a  monstrous  looking- 
glass!  "  cried  a  third.  "  And  why  not?  He's 
the  greatest  man  of  this  or  any  other  age, 
beyond  a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a 
great  shout,  which  communicated  electricity 
to  the  crowd,  and  called  forth  a  roar  from  a 
thousand  voices,  that  went  reverberating  for 
miles  among  the  mountains,  until  you  might 
have  supposed  that  the  Great  Ston<e  Face  had 
poured  its  thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All 
these  comments,  and  this  vast  enthusiasm, 
served  the  more  to  interest  our  friend;  nor 
did  he  think  of  questioning  that  now,  at 

157 


Nathaniel   Hawthorne 

length,  the  mountain-visage  had  found  its 
'human  counterpart.  It  is  true,  Ernest  had 
imagined  that  this  long-looked-for  personage 
would  appear  in  the  character  of  a  man  of 
peace,  uttering  wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and 
making  people  happy.  But,  taking  an  habit 
ual  breadth  of  view,  with  all  his  simplicity, 
he  contended  that  Providence  should  choose 
its  own  method  of  blessing  mankind,  and 
could  conceive  that  this  great  end  might  be 
effected  even  by  a  warrior  and  a  bloody 
sword,  should  inscrutable  wisdom  see  fit  to 
order  matters  so. 

"The  general!  The  general!"  was  now 
the  cry.  "Hush!  silence!  Old  Blood-and- 
Thunder's  going  to  make  a  speech." 

Even  so;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the 
general's  health  had  been  drunk  amid  shouts 
of  applause,  and  he  now  stood  upon  his  feet 
to  thank  the  company.  Ernest  saw  him. 
There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
crowd,  from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and 
embroidered  collar  upward,  beneath  the  arch 
of  green  boughs  with  intertwined  laurel,  and 
the  banner  drooping  as  if  to  shade  his  brow! 
And  there,  too,  visible  in  the  same  glance, 
through  the  vista  of  the  forest,  appeared  the 
Great  Stone  Face!  And  was  there,  indeed, 
such  a  resemblance  as  the  crowd  had  testi 
fied?  Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recognize  it! 
He  beheld  a  war-worn  and  weather-beaten 
countenance,  full  of  energy,  and  expressive 

158 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

of  an  iron  will;  but  the  gentle  wisdom,  the 
deep,  broad,  tender  sympathies,  were  alto 
gether  wanting  in  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's 
visage;  and  even  if  the  Great  Stone  Pace 
had  assumed  his  look  of  stern  command, 
the  milder  traits  would  still  have  tempered 
it. 

"  This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed 
Ernest,  to  himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out 
of  the  throng.  "  And  must  the  world  wait 
longer  yet?  " 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  dis 
tant  mountain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the 
grand  and  awful  features  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face,  awful  but  benignant,  as  if  a  mighty 
angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills,  and  en 
robing  himself  in  a  cloud-vesture  of  gold  and 
purple.  As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly 
believe  but  that  a  smile  beamed  over  the 
whole  visage,  with  a  radiance  still  brighten 
ing,  although  without  motion  of  the  lips.  It 
was  probably  the  effect  of  the  western  sun 
shine,  melting  through  the  thinly  diffused 
vapors  that  had  swept  between  him  and  the 
object  that  he  gazed  at.  But — as  it  always 
did — the  aspect  of  his  marvellous  friend 
made  Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he  had  never 
hoped  in  vain. 

"  Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as 
if  the  Great  Face  were  whispering  him,— 
"  fear  not,  Ernest;  he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly 

159 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

away.  Ernest  still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley, 
and  was  now  a  man  of  middle  age.  By  im 
perceptible  degrees,  he  had  become  known 
among  the  people.  Now,  as  heretofore,  he 
labored  for  his  bread,  and  was  the  same 
simple-hearted  man  that  he  had  always  been. 
But  he  had  thought  and  felt  so  much,  he  had 
given  so  many  of  the  best  hours  of  his  life 
to  unworldly  hopes  for  some  great  good  to 
mankind,  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  had 
been  talking  with  the  angels,  and  had  im 
bibed  a  portion  of  their  wisdom  unawares. 
It  was  visible  in  the  calm  and  well-consid 
ered  beneficence  of  his  daily  life,  the  quiet 
stream  of  which  had  made  a  wide  green 
margin  all  along  its  course.  Not  a  day 
passed  by,  that  the  world  was  not  the  better 
because  this  man,  humble  as  he  was,  had 
lived.  He  never  stepped  aside  from  his  own 
path,  yet  would  always  reach  a  blessing  to 
his  neighbor.  Almost  involuntarily,  too,  he 
had  become  a  preacher.  The  pure  and  high 
simplicity  of  his  thought,  which,  as  one  <j>f 
its  manifestations,  took  shape  in  the  good 
deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his  hand, 
flowed  also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered 
truths  that  wrought  upon  and  moulded  the 
lives  of  those  who  heard  him.  His  auditors, 
it  may  be,  never  suspected  that  Ernest,  their 
own  neighbor  and  familiar  friend,  was  more 
than  an  ordinary  man;  least  of  all  did  Ernest 
himself  suspect  it;  but,  inevitably  as  the 

160 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

murmur  of  a  rivulet,  came  thoughts  out  of 
his  mouth  that  no  other  human  lips  had 
spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  little 
time  to  cool,  they  were  ready  enough  to 
acknowledge  their  mistake  in  imagining 
a  similarity  between  General  Blood-and- 
Thunder's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the 
benign  visage  on  the'  mountain-side.  But 
now,  again,  there  were  reports  and  many 
paragraphs  in  the  newspapers,  affirming  that 
the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  ap 
peared  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  certain 
eminent  statesman.  He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a  native  of 
the  valley,  but  had  left  it  in  his  early  days, 
and  taken  up  the  trades  of  law  and  politics. 
Instead  of  the  rich  man's  wealth  and  the  war 
rior's  sword,  he  had  but  a  tongue,  and  it  was 
mightier  than  both  together.  So  wonderfully 
eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might 
choose  to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but 
to  believe  him;  wrong  looked  like  right,  and 
right  like  wrong;  for  when  it  pleased  him, 
he  could  make  a  kind  of  illuminated  fog  with 
his  mere  breath,  and  obscure  the  natural  day 
light  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed,  was  a 
magic  instrument:  sometimes  it  rumbled  like 
the  thunder;  sometimes  it  warbled  like  the 
sweetest  music.  It  was  the  blast  of  war, — 
the  song  of  peace;  and  it  seemed  to  have  a 
heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no  such  matter. 

161 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

In  good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man;  and 
when  his  tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other 
imaginable  success, — when  it  had  been  heard 
in  halls  of  state,  and  in  the  courts  of  princes 
and  potentates, — after  it  had  made  him 
known  all  over  the  world,  even  as  a  voice 
crying  from  shore  to  shore, — it  finally  per 
suaded  his  countrymen  to  select  him  for  the 
Presidency.  Before  this  time, — indeed,  as 
soon  as  he  began  to  grow  celebrated, — his 
admirers  had  found  out  the  resemblance  be 
tween  him  and  the  Great  Stone  Face;  and  so 
much  were  they  struck  by  it,  that  throughout 
the  country  this  distinguished  gentleman  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Old  Stony  Phiz.  The 
phrase  was  considered  as  giving  a  highly 
favorable  aspect  to  his  political  prospects; 
for,  as  is  likewise  the  case  with  the  Popedom, 
nobody  ever  becomes  President  without  tak 
ing  a  name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to 
make  him  President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he 
was  called,  set  out  on  a  visit  to  the  valley 
where  he  was  born.  Of  course,  he  had  no 
other  object  than  to  shake  hands  with  his 
fellow-citizens,  and  neither  thought  nor 
cared  about  any  effect  which  his  progress 
through  the  country  might  have  upon  the 
election.  Magnificent  preparations  were 
made  to  receive  the  illustrious  statesman; 
a  cavalcade  of  horsemen  set  forth  to  meet 
him  at  the  boundary  line  of  the  State,  and  all 

162 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

the  people  left  their  business  and  gathered 
along  the  wayside  to  see  him  pass.  Among 
these  was  Ernest.  Though  more  than  once 
disappointed,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  such 
a  hopeful  and  confiding  nature,  that  he  was 
always  ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed 
beautiful  and  good.  He  kept  his  heart  con 
tinually  open,  and  thus-  was  sure  to  catch  the 
blessing  from  on  high,  when  it  should  come. 
So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he  went 
forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great 
Stone  Face. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the 
road,  with  a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a 
mighty  cloud  of  dust,  which  rose  up  so  dense 
and  high  that  the  visage  of  the  mountain 
side  was  completely  hidden  from  Ernest's 
eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood 
were  there  on  horseback:  militia  officers,  in 
uniform;  the  member  of  Congress;  the 
sheriff  of  the  county;  the  editors  of  news 
papers  ;  and  many  a  farmer,  too,  had 
mounted  his  patient  steed,  with  his  Sunday 
coat  upon  his  back.  It  really  was  a  very 
brilliant  spectacle,  especially  as  there  were 
numerous  banners  flaunting  over  the  caval 
cade,  on  some  of  which  were  gorgeous  por 
traits  of  the  illustrious  statesman  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly  at  one 
another,  like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures 
were  to  be  trusted,  the  mutual  resemblance, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  marvellous.  We 

163 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

must  not  forget  to  mention  that  there  was  a 
band  of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of  the 
mountains  ring  and  revei berate  with  the 
loud  triumph  of  its  strains;  so  that  airy  and 
soul-thrilling  melodies  broke  out  among  all 
the  heights  and  hollows,  as  if  every  nook 
of  his  native  valley  had  found  a  voice,  to 
welcome  the  distinguished  guest.  But  the 
grandest  effect  was  when  the  far-off  moun 
tain  precipice  flung  back  the  music;  for  then 
the  Great  Stone  Face  itself  seemed  to  be 
swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in  acknowl 
edgment  that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy 
was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up 
their  hats  and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so 
contagious  that  the  heart  of  Ernest  kindled 
up,  and  he  likewise  threw  up  his  hat,  and 
shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loudest,  "  Huzza  for 
the  great  man!  Huzza  for  Old  Stony  Phiz!  " 
But  as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 

"  Here  he  is,  now!  "  cried  those  who  stood 
near  Ernest.  "There!  There!  Look  at  Old 
Stony  Phiz  and  then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain,  and  see  if  they  are  not  as  like  as 
two  twin-brothers!  " 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array,  came 
an  open  barouche,  drawn  by  four  white 
horses;  and  in  the  barouche,  with  his  mas 
sive  head  uncovered,  sat  the  illustrious 
statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"  Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neigh- 

164 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

bors  to  him,  "  the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met 
its  match  at  last!  " 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  countenance  which  was  bow 
ing  and  smiling  from  the  barouche,  Ernest 
did  fancy  that  there  was  a  resemblance  be 
tween  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon  rfhe 
mountain-side.  The  brow,  with  its  massive 
depth  and  loftiness,  and  all  the  other  feat 
ures,  indeed,  were  boldly  and  strongly  hewn, 
as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more  than  heroic,  of 
a  Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity  and 
stateliness,  the  grand  expression  of  a  divine 
sympathy,  that  illuminated  the  mountain 
visage,  and  etherealized  its  ponderous  gran 
ite  substance  into  spirit,  might  here  be 
sought  in  vain.  Something  had  been  origin 
ally  left  out,  or  had  departed.  And  therefore 
the  marvellously  gifted  statesman  had  al 
ways  a  weary  gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of 
his  eyes,  as  of  a  child  that  has  outgrown  its 
playthings,  or  a  man  of  mighty  faculties  and 
little  aims,  whose  life,  with  all  its  high  per 
formances,  was  vague  and  empty,  because  no 
high  purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still,  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his 
elbow  into  his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an 
answer. 

"Confess!  confess!  Is  not  he  the  very 
picture  of  your  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain?  " 

"No!  "  said  Ernest,  bluntly,  "I  see  little 
or  no  likeness." 

165 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"  Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great 
Stone  Face!  '  answered  his  neighbor;  and 
again  he  set  up  a  shout  for  Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and 
almost  despondent:  for  this  was  the  saddest 
of  his  disappointments,  to  behold  a  man  who 
might  have  fulfilled  the  prophecy,  and  had 
not  willed  to  do  so.  Meantime,  the  caval 
cade,  the  banners,  the  music,  and  the  ba 
rouches  swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous 
crowd  in  the  rear,  leaving  the  dust  to  settle 
down,  and  the  Great  Stone  Face  to  be  re 
vealed  again,  with  the  grandeur  that  it  had 
worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"  Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest!  "  the  benign  lips 
seemed  to  say.  "  I  have  waited  longer  than 
thou,  and  am  not  yet  weary.  Fear  not;  the 
man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in 
their  haste  on  one  another's  heels.  And  now 
they  began  to  bring  white  hairs,  and  scatter 
them  over  the  head  of  Ernest;  they  made 
reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and 
furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  an  aged  man. 
But  not  in  vain  had  he  grown  old:  more  than 
the  white  hairs  on  'his  head  were  the  sage 
thoughts  in  his  mind;  his  wrinkles  and  fur 
rows  were  inscriptions  that  Time  had  graved, 
and  in  which  he  had  written  legends  of  wis 
dom  that  had  been  tested  by  the  tenor  of  a 
life.  And  Ernest  had  ceased  to  be  obscure. 
Unsought  for,  undesired,  had  come  the  fame 

166 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

which  so  many  seek,  and  made  him  known  in 
the  great  world,  beyond  the  limits  of  the  val 
ley  in  which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly.  College 
professors,  and  even  the  active  men  of  cities, 
came  from  far  to.  see  and  converse  with 
Ernest;  for  the  report  had  gone  abroad  that 
this  simple  husbandman  had  ideas  unlike 
those  of  other  men,  not  gained  from  books, 
but  of  a  higher  tone, — a  tranquil  and  familiar 
majesty,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the 
angels  as  his  daily  friends.  Whether  it  were 
sage,  statesman,  or  philanthropist,  Ernest 
received  these  visitors  with  tihe  gentle  sin 
cerity  that  had  characterized  him  from  boy 
hood,  and  spoke  freely  with  them  of  what 
ever  came  uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his 
heart  or  their  own.  While  they  talked 
together,  his  face  would  kindle,  unawares, 
and  shine  upon  them,  as  with  a  mild  evening 
light.  Pensive  with  the  fulness  of  such  dis 
course,  his  guests  took  leave  and  went  their 
way;  and  passing  up  the  valley,  paused  to 
look  at  the  Great  Stone  Face,  imagining  that 
they  had  seen  its  likeness  in  a  human  coun 
tenance,  but  could  not  remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and 
growing  old,  a  bountiful  Providence  had 
granted  a  new  poet  to  this  earth.  He,  like 
wise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley,  but  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a  distance 
from  that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his 
sweet  music  amid  the  bustle  and  din  of  cities. 

107 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Often,  however,  did  the  mountains  which  had 
been  familiar  to  him  in  his  childhood  lift 
their  snowy  peaks  into  the  clear  atmosphere 
of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the  Great  Stone 
Face  forgotten,  for  the  poet  had  celebrated 
it  in  an  ode,  which  was  grand  enough  to  have 
been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  lips.  This 
man  of  genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down 
from  heaven  with  wonderful  endowments.  If 
he  sang  of  a  mountain,  the  eyes  of  all  man 
kind  beheld  a  mightier  grandeur  reposing  on 
its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit,  than  had 
before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been 
thrown  over  it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  sur 
face.  If  it  were  the  vast  old  sea,  even  the 
deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosom  seemed  to 
swell  the  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emotions 
of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  an 
other  and  a  better  aspect  from  the  hour  that 
the  poet  blessed  it  with  his  happy  eyes.  The 
Creator  had  bestowed  him,  as  the  last  best 
touch  to  his  own  handiwork.  Creation  was 
not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  interpret, 
and  so  complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful, 
when  his  human  brethren  were  the  subject 
of  his  verse.  The  man  or  woman,  sordid 
with  the  common  dust  of  life,  who  crossed 
his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child  who  played 
in  it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in  his 
mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden 

168 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

links  of  the  great  chain  that  intertwined 
them  with  an  angelic  kindred;  he  brought 
out  the  hidden  traits  of  a  celestial  birth  that 
made  them  worthy  of  such  kin.  Some,  in 
deed,  there  were,  who  thought  to  show  the 
soundness  of  their  judgment  by  affirming 
that  all  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the 
natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's 
fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for  themselves, 
who  undoubtedly  appear  to  have  been 
spawned  forth  by  Nature  with  a  contemptu 
ous  bitterness;  she  having  plastered  them 
up  out  of  her  refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine 
were  made.  As  respects  all  things  else,  the 
poet's  ideal  was  the  truest  truth. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to 
Ernest.  He  read  them  after  his  customary 
toil,  seated  on  the  bench  before  his  cottage- 
door,  where  for  such  a  length  of  time  he  had 
filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gazing  at 
the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read 
stanzas  that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within 
him,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  vast  coun 
tenance  beaming  on  him  so  benignantly. 

"  0  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  ad 
dressing  the  Great  Stone  Face,  "  is  not  this 
man  worthy  to  resemble  thee?  ' 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered 
not  a  word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he 
dwelt  so  far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of 
Ernest,  but  had  meditated  much  upon  his 

109 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

character,  until  he  deemed  nothing  so  desir 
able  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught 
wisdom  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble 
simplicity  of  his  life.  One  summer  morning, 
therefore,  he  took  passage  by  the  railroad, 
and,  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon,  alighted 
from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance  from 
Ernest's  cottage.  The  great  hotel,  which 
had  formerly  been  the  palace  of  Mr.  Gather- 
gold,  was  close  at  hand,  but  the  poet,  with 
his  carpet-bag  on  his  arm,  inquired  at  once 
where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved  to  be 
accepted  as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the 
good  old  man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand, 
which  alternately  he  read,  and  then,  with  a 
finger  between  the  leaves,  looked  lovingly  at 
the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"  Good  evening,"  $Qid  the  poet.  "  Can  you 
give  a  traveller  a  night's  lodging?  " 

"Willingly,"  answered  Ernest;  and  then 
he  added,  smiling,  "  Methinks  I  never  saw 
the  Great  Stone  Face  look  so  hospitably  at  a 
stranger." 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside 
him,  and  he  and  Ernest  talked  together. 
Often  had  the  poet  held  intercourse  with  the 
wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never  before  with 
a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom, 
and  who  made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his 
simple  utterance  of  them.  Angels,  as  had 

170 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

been  so  often  said,  seemed  to  have  wrought 
with  him  at  his  labor  in  the  fields;  angels 
seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fireside; 
and,  dwelling  with  angels  as  friend  with 
friends,  he  had  imbibed  the  sublimity  of  their 
ideas,  and  imbued  it  with  the  sweet  and 
lowly  charm  of  household  words.  So  thought 
the  poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  moved  and  agitated  by  the  living  images 
which  the  poet  flung  out  of  his  mind,  and 
which  peopled  all  the  air  about  the  cottage- 
door  with  shapes  of  beauty,  both  gay  and 
pensive.  The  sympathies  of  these  two  men 
instructed  them  with  a  profounder  sense  than 
either  could  have  attained  alone.  Their 
minds  accorded  into  one  strain,  and  made 
delightful  music  which  neither  of  them 
could  have  claimed  as  all  his  own,  nor  dis 
tinguished  his  own  share  from  the  other's. 
They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a  high 
pavilion  of  their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and 
hitherto  so  dim,  that  they  had  never  entered 
it  before,  and  so  beautiful  that  they  desired 
to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined 
that  the  Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  for 
ward  to  listen  too.  He  gazed  earnestly  into 
the  poet's  glowing  eyes. 

"Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest?" 
he  said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that 
Ernest  had  been  reading. 

171 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

"  You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he. 
"  You  know  me,  then, — for  I  wrote  them." 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  be 
fore,  Ernest  examined  the  poet's  features; 
then  turned  towards  the  Great  Stone  Face; 
then  back,  with  an  uncertain  aspect,  to  his 
guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he  shook 
his  head,  and  sighed. 

"Wherefore  are  you  .sad?"  inquired  the 
poet. 

"  Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "  all  through 
life  I  have  awaited  the  fulfilment  of  a  proph 
ecy;  and,  when  I  read  these  poems,  I  hoped 
that  it  might  be  fulfilled  in  you." 

"  You  hoped,"  answered  the  poet,  faintly 
smiling,  "  to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  And  you  are  disap 
pointed,  as  formerly  with  Mr.  Gathergold, 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and  Old  Stony 
Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  You  must 
add  my  name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and  re 
cord  another  failure  of  your  hopes.  For — 
in  shame  and  sadness  do  I  speak  it,  Ernest — 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typified  by  yonder 
benign  and  majestic  image." 

"And  why?"  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed 
to  the  volume.  "  Are  not  those  thoughts 
divine?  " 

"  They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  re 
plied  the  poet.  "  You  can  hear  in  them  the 
far-off  echo  of  a  heavenly  song.  But  my  life, 
dear  Ernest,  has  not  corresponded  with  my 

172 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

thought.  I  have  had  grand  dreams,  but  they 
have  been  only  dreams,  because  I  have  lived 
— and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice — among 
poor  and  mean  realities.  Sometimes  even — 
shall  I  dare  to  say  it? — I  lack  faith  in  the 
grandeur,  the  beauty,  and  the  goodness, 
which  my  own  works  are  said  to  have  made 
more  evident  in  nature  and  in  human  life. 
Why,  then,  pure  seeker  of  the  good  and  true, 
shouldst  thou  hope  to  find  me,  in  yonder 
image  of  the  divine?  " 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and  his  eyes  were 
dim  with  tears.  So,  likewise,  were  those  of 
Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his 
frequent  custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to 
an  assemblage  of  the  neighboring  inhabi 
tants  in  the  open  air.  He  and  the  poet,  arm 
in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they  went 
along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  small 
nook  among  the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice 
behind,  the  stern  front  of  which  was  relieved 
by  the  pleasant  foliage  of  many  creeping 
plants,  that  made  a  tapestry  for  the  naked 
rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from  all  its 
rugged  angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above 
the  ground,  set  in  a  rich  framework  of  ver 
dure,  there  appeared  a  niche,  spacious 
enough  to  admit  a  human  figure,  with  free 
dom  for  such  gestures  as  spontaneously  ac 
company  earnest  thought  and  genuine  emo 
tion.  Into  this  natural  pulpit  Ernest 


I  rvo 
I  iO 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

ascended,  and  threw  a  look  of  familiar  kind 
ness  around  upon  his  audience.  They  stood, 
or  sat,  or  reclined  upon  the  grass,  as  seemed 
good  to  each,  with  the  departing  sunshine 
falling  obliquely  over  them,  and  mingling  its 
subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemnity  of 
a  grove  of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid 
the  boughs  of  which  the  golden  rays  were 
constrained  to  pass.  In  another  direction 
was  seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  the  same 
cheer,  combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  in 
its  benignant  aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people 
of  what  was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His 
words  had  power,  because  they  accorded  with 
his  thoughts;  and  his  thoughts  had  reality 
and  depth,  because  they  harmonized  with  the 
life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was  not 
mere  breath  that  this  preacher  uttered;  they 
were  the  words  of  life,  because  a  life  of  good 
deeds  and  holy  love  was  melted  into  them. 
Pearls,  pure  and  rich,  had  been  dissolved  into 
this  precious  draught.  The  poet,  as  he  lis 
tened,  felt  that  the  being  and  character  of 
Ernest  were  a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than 
he  had  ever  written.  His  eyes  glistened  with 
tears,  he  gazed  reverentially  at  the  venerable 
man,  and  said  within  himself  that  never  was 
there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a  prophet  and  a 
sage  as  that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful  coun 
tenance,  with  the  glory  of  white  hair  diffused 
about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  distinctly  to  be 

174 


The  Great  Stone  Face 

seen,  high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the  set 
ting  sun,  appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with 
hoary  mists  around  it,  like  the  white  hairs 
around  the  brow  of  Ernest.  Its  look  of 
grand  beneficence  seemed  to  embrace  the 
world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a 
thought  which  he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face 
of  Ernest  assumed  a  grandeur  of  expression, 
so  imbued  with  benevolence,  that  the  poet, 
by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his  arms 
aloft,  and  shouted, — 

"Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the 
likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face!  " 

Then  all  the  people  looked,  and  saw  that 
what  the  deep-sighted  poet  said  was  true. 
The  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  But  Ernest, 
having  finished  what  he  had  to  say,  took  the 
poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  homeward, 
still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better  man 
than  himself  would  by  and  by  appear,  bear 
ing  a  resemblance  to  the  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 


175 


The  Gray   Champion 


177 


The   Gray   Champion 

THERE  was  once  a  time  when  New  England 
groaned  under  the  actual  pressure  of  heavier 
wrongs  than  those  threatened  ones  which 
brought  on  the  Revolution.  James  II.,  the 
bigoted  successor  of  Charles  the  Voluptuous, 
had  annulled  the  charters  of  all  the  colonies, 
and  sent  a  harsh  and  unprincipled  soldier  to 
take  away  our  liberties  and  endanger  our 
religion.  The  administration  of  Sir  Edmund 
Andros  lacked  scarcely  a  single  character 
istic  of  tyranny:  a  Governor  and  Council, 
holding  office  from  the  King,  and  wholly  in 
dependent  of  the  country;  laws  made  and 
taxes  levied  without  concurrence  of  the 
people,  immediate  or  by  their  representa 
tives;  the  rights  of  private  citizens  violated, 
and  the  titles  of  all  landed  property  declared 
void;  the  voice  of  complaint  stifled  by  re 
strictions  on  the  press;  and,  finally,  disaffec 
tion  overawed  by  the  first  band  of  mercenary 
troops  that  ever  marched  on  our  free  soil. 
For  two  years  our  ancestors  were  kept  in 
sullen  submission  by  that  filial  love  which 
had  invariably  secured  their  allegiance  to  the 

179 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

mother  country,  whether  its  head  chanced  to 
be  a  Parliament,  Protector,  or  Popish  Mon 
arch.  Till  these  evil  times,  however,  such 
allegiance  had  been  merely  nominal,  and  the 
colonists  had  ruled  themselves,  enjoying  far 
more  freedom  than  is  even  yet  the  privilege 
of  the  native  subjects  of  Great  Britain. 

At  length  a  rumor  reached  our  shores  that 
the  Prince  of  Orange  had  ventured  on  an 
enterprise  the  success  of  which  would  be  the 
triumph  of  civil  and  religious  rights  and  the 
salvation  of  New  England.  It  was  but  a 
doubtful  whisper;  it  might  be  false,  or  the 
attempt  might  fail;  and,  in  either  case,  the 
man  that  stirred  against  King  James  would 
lose  his  head.  Still,  the  intelligence  pro 
duced  a  marked  effect.  The  people  smiled 
mysteriously  in  the  streets,  and  threw  bold 
glances  at  their  oppressors;  while,  far  and 
wide,  there  was  a  subdued  and  silent  agita 
tion,  as  if  the  slightest  signal  would  rouse 
the  whole  land  from  its  sluggish  despon 
dency.  Aware  of  their  danger,  the  rulers 
resolved  to  avert  it  by  an  imposing  display 
of  strength,  and  perhaps  to  confirm  their 
despotism  by  yet  harsher  measures.  One 
afternoon  in  April,  1689,  Sir  Edmund  Andros 
and  his  favorite  councillors,  being  warm  with 
wine,  assembled  the  redcoats  of  the  Gover 
nor's  Guard,  and  made  their  appearance  in 
the  streets  of  Boston.  The  sun  was  near  set 
ting  when  the  march  commenced. 

180 


The  Gray  Champion 

The  roll  of  the  drum,  at  that  unquiet  crisis, 
seemed  to  go  through  the  streets,  less  as  the 
martial  music  of  the  soldiers,  than  as  a 
muster-call  to  the  inhabitants  themselves. 
A  multitude,  by  various  avenues,  assembled 
in  King  Street,  which  was  destined  to  be  the 
scene,  nearly  a  century  afterwards,  of  an 
other  encounter  between  the  troops  of 
Britain  and  a  people  struggling  against  her 
tyranny.  Though  more  than  sixty  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  Pilgrims  came,  this  crowd 
of  their  descendants  still  showed  the  strong 
and  sombre  features  of  their  character,  per 
haps  more  strikingly  in  such  a  stern  emer 
gency  than  on  happier  occasions.  There  were 
the  sober  garb,  the  general  severity  of  mien, 
the  gloomy  but  undismayed  expression,  the 
Scriptural  forms  of  speech,  and  the  confi 
dence  in  Heaven's  blessing  on  a  righteous 
cause,  which  would  have  marked  a  band  of 
the  original  Puritans,  when  threatened  by 
some  peril  of  the  wilderness.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  yet  time  for  the  old  spirit  to  be  extinct; 
since  there  were  men  in  the  street,  that  day, 
who  had  worshipped  there  beneath  the  trees, 
before  a  house  was  reared  to  the  God  for 
whom  they  had  become  exiles.  Old  soldiers 
of  the  Parliament  were  here,  too,  smiling 
k'rimly  at  the  thought,  that  their  aged  arms 
might  strike  another  blow  against  the  house 
of  Stuart.  Here,  also,  were  the  veterans  of 
King  Philip's  war,  who  had  burned  villages 

181 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

and  slaughtered  young  and  old,  with  pious 
fierceness,  while  the  godly  souls  throughout 
the  land  were  helping  them  with  prayer. 
Several  ministers  were  scattered  among  the 
crowd,  which,  unlike  all  other  mobs,  re 
garded  them  with  such  reverence,  as  if  there 
were  sanctity  in  their  very  garments.  These 
holy  men  exerted  their  influence  to  quiet  the 
people,  but  not  to  disperse  them.  Meantime, 
the  purpose  of  the  Governor,  in  disturbing 
the  peace  of  the  town,  at  a  period  when 
the  slightest  commotion  might  throw  the 
country  into  a  ferment,  was  almost  the  uni 
versal  subject  of  inquiry,  and  variously  ex 
plained. 

"  Satan  will  strike  his  master-stroke  pres 
ently,"  cried  some,  "  because  he  knoweth 
that  his  time  is  short.  All  our  godly  pastors 
are  to  be  dragged  to  prison!  We  shall  see 
them  at  a  Smithfield  fire  in  King  Street!  " 

Hereupon  the  people  of  each  parish  gath 
ered  closer  round  their  minister,  who  looked 
calmly  upwards  and  assumed  a  more  apos 
tolic  dignity,  as  well  befitted  a  candidate  for 
the  highest  honor  of  his  profession,  the 
crown  of  martyrdom.  It  was  actually 
fancied,  at  that  period,  that  New  England 
might  have  a  John  Rogers  of  her  own, 
to  take  the  place  of  that  worthy  in  the 
Primer. 

"  The  Pope  of  Rome  has  given  orders 
for  a  new  St.  Bartholomew!  "  cried  others. 

'      182 


The  Gray  Champion 

"  We  are  to  be  massacred,  man  and  male 
child!  " 

Neither  was  this  rumor  wholly  discredited, 
although  the  wiser  class  believed  the  Gover 
nor's  object  somewhat  less  atrocious.  His 
predecessor  under  the  old  charter,  Brad- 
street,  a  venerable  companion  of  the  first 
settlers,  was  known  to  be  in  town.  There 
were  grounds  for  conjecturing  that  Sir 
Edmund  Andros  intended,  at  once,  to  strike 
terror,  by  a  parade  of  military  force,  and  to 
confound  the  opposite  faction  by  possessing 
himself  of  their  chief. 

"  Stand  firm  for  the  old  charter,  Gover 
nor!  "  shouted  the  crowd,  seizing  upon  the 
idea.  "  The  good  old  Governor  Bradstreet!  " 

While  this  cry  was  at  the  loudest,  the 
people  were  surprised  by  the  well-known 
figure  of  Governor  Bradstreet  himself,  a 
patriarch  of  nearly  ninety,  who  appeared  on 
the  elevated  steps  of  a  door,  and,  with  char 
acteristic  mildness,  besought  them  to  submit 
to  the  constituted  authorities. 

"  My  children,"  concluded  this  venerable 
person,  "  do  nothing  rashly.  Cry  not  aloud, 
but  pray  for  the  welfare  of  New  England, 
and  expect  patiently  what  the  Lord  will  do 
in  this  matter!  " 

The  event  was  soon  to  be  decided.  All 
this  time,  the  roll  of  the  drum  had  been  ap 
proaching  through  Cornhill,  louder  and 
deeper,  till  with  reverberations  from  house 

183 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

to  house,  and  the  regular  tramp  of  martial 
footsteps,  it  burst  into  the  street.  A  double 
rank  of  soldiers  made  their  appearance,  oc 
cupying  the  whole  breadth  of  the  passage, 
with  shouldered  matchlocks,  and  matches 
burning,  so  as  to  present  a  row  of  fires  in  the 
dusk.  Their  steady  march  was  like  the  prog 
ress  of  a  machine,  that  would  roll  irresist 
ibly  over  everything  in  its  way.  Next,  mov 
ing  slowly,  with  a  confused  clatter  of  hoofs 
on  the  pavement,  rode  a  party  of  mounted 
gentlemen,  the  central  figure  being  Sir  Ed 
mund  Andros,  elderly,  but  erect  and  soldier 
like.  Those  around  him  were  his  favorite 
councillors,  and  the  bitterest  foes  of  New 
England.  At  his  right  hand  rode  Edward 
Randolph,  our  arch-enemy,  that  ' '  blasted 
wretch,"  as  Cotton  Mather  calls  him,  who 
achieved  the  downfall  of  our  ancient  govern 
ment,  and  was  followed  with  a  sensible  cursfc, 
through  life  and  to  his  grave.  On  the  other 
side  was  Bullivant,  scattering  jests  and 
mockery  as  he  rode  along.  Dudley  came  be 
hind,  with  a  downcast  look,  dreading,  as  well 
he  might,  to  meet  the  indignant  gaze  of  the 
people,  who  beheld  him,  their  only  country 
man  by  birth,  among  the  oppressors  of  his 
native  land.  The  captain  of  a  frigate  in  the 
harbor,  and  two  or  three  civil  officers  under 
the  Crown,  were  also  there.  But  the  figure 
which  most  attracted  the  public  eye,  and 
stirred  up  the  deepest  feeling,  was  the  Epis- 

184 


The  Gray  Champion 

copal  clergyman  of  King's  Chapel,  riding 
haughtily  among  the  magistrates  in  his 
priestly  vestments,  the  fitting  representative 
of  prelacy  and  persecution,  the  union  of 
Church  and  State,  and  all  those  abomina 
tions  which  had  driven  the  Puritans  to  the 
wilderness.  Another  guard  of  soldiers,  in 
double  rank,  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  whole  scene  was  a  picture  of  the  con 
dition  of  New  England,  and  its  moral,  the 
deformity  of  any  government  that  does  not 
grow  out  of  the  nature  of  things  and  the 
character  of  the  people.  On  one  side  the 
religious  multitude,  with  their  sad  visages 
and  dark  attire,  and  on  the  other,  the  group 
of  despotic  rulers,  with  the  High-Churchman 
in  the  midst,  and  here  and  there  a  crucifix 
at  their  bosoms,  all  magnificently  clad, 
flushed  with  wine,  proud  of  unjust  authority, 
and  scoffing  at  the  universal  groan.  And  the 
mercenary  soldiers,  waiting  but  the  word  to 
deluge  the  street  with  blood,  showed  the 
only  means  by  which  obedience  could  be 
secured. 

"  O  Lord  of  Hosts,"  cried  a  voice  among 
the  crowd,  "  provide  a  Champion  for  thy 
people!  " 

This  ejaculation  was  loudly  uttered,  and 
served  as  a  herald's  cry,  to  introduce  a  re 
markable  personage.  The  crowd  had  rolled 
back,  and  were  now  huddled  together  nearly 
at  the  extremity  of  the  street,  while  the  sol- 

185 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

diers  had  advanced  no  more  than  a  third  of 
its  length.  The  intervening  space  was 
empty, — a  paved  solitude,  between  lofty  edi 
fices,  which  threw  almost  a  twilight  shadow 
over  it.  Suddenly,  there  was  seen  the  figure 
of  an  ancient  man,  who  seemed  to  have 
emerged  from  among  the  people,  and  was 
walking  by  himself  along  the  centre  of  the 
street,  to  confront  the  armed  band.  He  wore 
the  old  Puritan  dress,  a  dark  cloak  and  a 
steeple-crowned  hat,  in  the  fashion  of  at  least 
fifty  years  before,  with  a  heavy  sword  upon 
his  thigh,  but  a  staff  in  his  hand  to  assist 
the  tremulous  gait  of  age. 

When  at  some  distance  from  the  multitude, 
the  old  man  turned  slowly  round,  displaying 
a  face  of  antique  majesty,  rendered  doubly 
venerable  by  the  hoary  beard  that  descended 
on  his  breast.  He  made  a  gesture  at  once  of 
encouragement  and  warning,  then  turned 
again,  and  resumed  his  way. 

"  Who  is  this  gray  patriarch?  "  asked  the 
young  men  of  their  sires. 

"Who  is  this  venerable  brother?"  asked 
the  old  men  among  themselves. 

But  none  could  make  reply.  The  fathers 
of  the  people,  those  of  fourscore  years  and 
upwards,  were  disturbed,  deeming  it  strange 
that  they  should  forget  one  of  such  evident 
authority,  whom  they  must  have  known  in 
their  early  days,  the  associate  of  Winthrop, 
and  all  the  old  councillors,  giving  laws,  and 

186 


The  Gray  Champion 

making  prayers,  and  leading  them  against  the 
savage.  The  elderly  men  ought  to  have  re 
membered  him,  too,  with  locks  as  gray  in 
their  youth  as  their  own  were  now.  And  the 
young!  How  could  he  have  passed  so  utterly 
from  their  memories, — that  hoary  sire,  the 
relic  of  long-departed  times,  whose  awful 
benediction  had  surely  been  bestowed  on 
their  uncovered  heads,  in  childhood? 

"Whence  did  he  come?  What  is  his  pur 
pose?  Who  can  this  old  man  be?  "  whispered 
the  wondering  crowd. 

Meanwhile,  the  venerable  stranger,  staff  in 
hand,  was  pursuing  his  solitary  walk  along 
the  centre  of  the  street.  As  he  drew  near 
the  advancing  soldiers,  and  as  the  roll  of 
their  drum  came  full  upon  his  ear,  the  old 
man  raised  himself  to  a  loftier  mien,  while 
the  decrepitude  of  age  seemed  to  fall  from 
his  shoulders,  leaving  him  in  gray  but  un 
broken  dignity.  Now,  he  marched  onward 
with  a  warrior's  step,  keeping  time  to  the 
military  music.  Thus  the  aged  form  ad 
vanced  on  one  side,  and  the  whole  parade  of 
soldiers  and  magistrates  on  the  other,  till, 
when  scarcely  twenty  yards  remained  be 
tween,  the  old  man  grasped  his  staff  by  the 
middle,  and  held  it  before  him  like  a  leader's 
truncheon. 

"  Stand!  "  cried  he. 

The  eye,  the  face,  and  attitude  of  com 
mand;  the  solemn,  yet  warlike  peal  of  that 

187 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

voice,  fit  either  to  rule  a  host  in  the  battle 
field  or  be  raised  to  God  in  prayer,  were  irre 
sistible.  At  the  old  man's  word  and  out 
stretched  arm,  the  roll  of  the  drum  was 
hushed  at  once,  and  the  advancing  line  stood 
still.  A  tremulous  enthusiasm  seized  upon 
the  multitude.  That  stately  form,  combin 
ing  the  leader  and  the  saint,  so  gray,  so  dimly 
seen,  in  such  an  ancient  garb,  could  only 
belong  to  some  old  champion  of  the  righteous 
cause,  whom  the  oppressor's  drum  had  sum 
moned  from  *his  grave.  They  raised  a  shout 
of  awe  and  exultation,  and  looked  for  the 
deliverance  of  New  England. 

The  Governor,  and  the  gentlemen  of  his 
party,  perceiving  themselves  brought  to  an 
unexpected  stand,  rode  hastily  forward,  as  if 
they  would  have  pressed  their  snorting  and 
affrighted  horses  right  against  the  hoary  ap 
parition.  He,  however,  blenched  not  a  step, 
but  glancing  his  severe  eye  round  the  group, 
which  half  encompassed  him,  at  last  bent  it 
sternly  on  Sir  Edmund  Andros.  One  would 
have  thought  that  the  dark  old  man  was 
chief  ruler  there,  and  that  the  Governor  and 
Council,  with  soldiers  at  their  back,  repre 
senting  the  whole  power  and  authority  of 
the  Crown,  had  no  alternative  but  obedi 
ence. 

"What  does  this  old  fellow  here?"  cried 
Edward  Randolph,  fiercely.  "  On,  Sir  Ed 
mund!  Bid  the  soldiers  forward,  and  give 

188 


The  Gray  Champion 

the  dotard  the  same  choice  that  you  give  all 
his  countrymen, — to  stand  astde  or  be 
trampled  on!  ' 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  us  show  respect  to  the  good 
grandsire,"  said  Bullivant,  laughing.  "  See 
you  not,  he  is  some  old  round-headed  digni 
tary,  who  hath  lain  asleep  these  thirty  years, 
and  knows  nothing  of  the  change  of  times? 
Doubtless,  he  thinks  to  put  us  down  with  a 
proclamation  in  Old  Noll's  name!  " 

"  Are  you  mad,  old  man?  "  demanded  Sir 
Edmund  Andros,  in  loud  and  harsh  tones. 
"  How  dare  you  stay  the  march  of  King 
James's  Governor?  " 

"I  have  stayed  the  march  of  a  king  himself, 
ere  now,"  replied  the  gray  figure,  with  stern 
composure.  "  I  am  here,  Sir  Governor,  be 
cause  the  cry  of  an  oppressed  people  hath 
disturbed  me  in  my  secret  place;  and  be 
seeching  this  favor  earnestly  of  the  Lord,  it 
was  vouchsafed  me  to  appear  once  again  on 
earth,  in  the  good  old  cause  of  his  saints. 
And  what  speak  ye  of  James?  There  is  no 
longer  a  Popish  tyrant  on  the  throne  of  Eng 
land,  and  by  to-morrow  noon  his  name  shall 
be  a  byword  in  this  very  street,  where  ye 
would  make  it  a  word  of  terror.  Back,  thou 
that  wast  a  Governor,  back!  With  this  night 
thy  power  is  ended, — to-morrow,  the  prison! 
-back,  lest  I  foretell  the  scaffold!  " 

The  people  had  been  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  drinking  in  the  words  of  their 

189 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

champion,  who  spoke  in  accents  long  disused, 
like  one  unaccustomed  to  converse,  except 
with  the  dead  of  many  years  ago.  But  his 
voice  stirred  their  souls.  They  confronted 
the  soldiers,  not  wholly  without  arms,  and 
ready  to  convert  the  very  stones  of  the  street 
into  deadly  weapons.  Sir  Edmund  Andros 
looked  at  the  old  man;  then  he  cast  his  hard 
and  cruel  eye  over  the  multitude,  and  beheld 
them  burning  with  that  lurid  wrath,  so  diffi 
cult  to  kindle  or  to  quench;  and  again  he 
fixed  his  gaze  on  the  aged  form,  which  stood 
obscurely  in  an  open  space,  where  neither 
friend  nor  foe  had  thrust  himself.  What 
were  his  thoughts,  he  uttered  no  word  which 
might  discover.  But  whether  the  oppressor 
were  overawed  by  the  Gray  Champion's  look, 
or  perceived  his  peril  in  the  threatening  atti 
tude  of  the  people,  it  is  certain  that  he  gave 
back,  and  ordered  his  soldiers  to  commence 
a  slow  and  guarded  retreat.  Before  another 
sunset,  the  Governor,  and  all  that  rode  so 
proudly  with  him,  were  prisoners,  and  long 
ere  it  was  known  that  James  had  abdicated, 
King  William  was  proclaimed  throughout 
New  England. 

But  where  was  the  Gray  Champion?  Some 
reported,  that  when  the  troops  had  gone  from 
King  Street,  and  the  people  were  thronging 
tumultuously  in  their  rear,  Bradstreet,  the 
aged  Governor,  was  seen  to  embrace  a  form 
more  aged  than  his  own.  Others  soberly 

190 


The  Gray  Champion 

affirmed,  that  while  they  marvelled  at  the 
venerable  grandeur  of  his  aspect,  the  old  man 
had  faded  from  their  eyes,  melting  slowly 
into  the  hues  of  twilight,  till,  where  he  stood, 
there  was  an  empty  space.  But  all  agreed 
that  the  hoary  shape  was  gone.  The  men  of 
that  generation  watched  for  his  reappear 
ance,  in  sunshine  and  in  twilight,  but  never 
saw  him  more,  nor  knew  when  his  funeral 
passed,  nor  where  his  gravestone  was. 

And  who  was  the  Gray  Champion?  Per 
haps  his  name  might  be  found  in  the  records 
of  that  stern  Court  of  Justice,  which  passed 
a  sentence,  too  mighty  for  the  age,  but  glori 
ous  in  all  after  times,  for  its  humbling  les 
son  to  the  monarch  and  its  high  example  to 
the  subject.  I  have  heard,  that  whenever  the 
descendants  of  the  Puritans  are  to  show  the 
spirit  of  their  sires,  the  old  man  appears 
again.  When  eighty  years  had  passed,  he 
walked  once  more  in  King  Street.  Five  years 
later,  in  the  twilight  of  an  April  morning,  he 
stood  on  the  green,  beside  the  meeting-house, 
at  Lexington,  where  now  the  obelisk  of  gran 
ite,  with  a  slab  of  slate  inlaid,  commemorates 
the  first  fallen  of  the  Revolution.  And  when 
our  fathers  were  toiling  at  the  breastwork  on 
Bunker's  Hill,  all  through  that  night  the  old 
warrior  walked  his  rounds.  Long,  long  may 
it  be,  ere  he  comes  again!  His  hour  is  one 
of  darkness,  and  adversity,  and  peril.  But 
should  domestic  tyranny  oppress  us,  or  the 

191 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

invader's  step  pollute  our  soil,  still  may  the 
Gray  Champion  come,  for  he  is  the  type  of 
New  England's  hereditary  spirit,  and  his 
shadowy  march,  on  the  eve  of  danger,  must 
ever  be  the  pledge  that  New  England's  sons 
will  vindicate  their  ancestry. 


192 


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